


Wandering Stars

by Lizzen



Category: Hannibal (2001), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, Hannibal Rising (2007), The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Cunnilingus, F/M, Multi, Murder, Murder Family, Polyamory, elements of incest, vague references to abuse from book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murder Family in Florence AU / Hannibal (book) AU</p><p>Since his youth, Hannibal has sent murderers to the doorsteps of his loved ones. Murasaki. Will. Abigail. Clarice. They always survive; so he has no regrets.</p><p>A series of events unfolds so that Abigail will have a home and a family in Florence, so that Will can cross over to the other side of his madness and find peace, so that Clarice can break away from the masters who hate her and make her own choices. </p><p>This is a love letter to Florence, to the Hannibal franchise, and mostly to Abigail Hobbs as she creates her own happiness with each step of her journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wandering Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Every canon available has been sifted through and pillaged to recreate a place for murder family, in all its variations. It's not necessary to be intimately familiar with anything but the show, however. 
> 
> THANK YOU TO THE LOVELY CARNILIA FOR HER EXQUISITE ART. [LOOK AT THIS GODDAMN 3-D PIECE OF ACTION HERE, as well as BEAUTIFUL POETRY TIEMZ.](http://carnilia.tumblr.com/post/77501003275/art-for-hannibal-big-bang-multimedia-pieces-put) What a goddamn badass. Send her some love!
> 
> This is ultimately a story about Abigail Hobbs, who, as Hannibal says, is stronger than we think.

_They are clouds without rain, blown along by the wind; autumn trees, without fruit and uprooted—twice dead._  
_They are wild waves of the sea, foaming up their shame; wandering stars, for whom blackest darkness has been reserved forever._

## I. prologue

When Hannibal saw Abigail Hobbs for the first time, she was gagging for air, staring frantic at her father and at Will's panicked attempts to keep her from bleeding out.

It had occurred to Hannibal that a welder couldn’t possibly carry out so many successful abductions of young women without some singular charm. Mirrored in the heat of her spilled blood, Hannibal recognized himself. She was, indeed, charming, even in the throes of death.

Hobbs was sloppy in his use of this wonderful creature. Hannibal would be far better at shaping raw materials into art.

## II. moments in time

 **It's 2028, Viareggio** , a tourist beach near Florence, Italy, and a young woman is sunning near the clear blue Mediterranean waters.

She is only one of many bikini-clad ladies enjoying the weather and the beauty of the Tuscan seaside; she blends in with the mass crush of humans in the summertime. Her hair is short and dark, matching the fashion these days. She has shapely calves, and her arms are muscular.

During hunting season, she works for a local villa. A few know her to be a crack shot and good with tourists, especially the Japanese. She speaks other languages as well; fluent Italian, English, French, and some have heard her haggle in Lithuanian in the markets of Florence. Her tastes are elegant, and her manners are flawless.

She answers to Signorina Judith Fell, and signs her credit card receipts with what could be an "A", but everyone scribbles their names on such things anyway. She lives in an apartment near the water with a man. He'll fix your boat motor if you pay cash. Some are taken aback by the scars on his face. She doesn't recoil; she kisses his scars, all of them, and tells him he is beautiful, and hers.

Sometimes, they make love in the quiet of their apartment. She is insatiable, and he is more than willing to be close to her.

Sometimes, they kill together. With his imagination and her aim, they can be quite creative.

Sometimes, she will look out at the water, to the west, far to the west. It's been four years since a serial killer escaped his captors in Tennessee after assisting in the discovery of Buffalo Bill. She smiles, thinking of him looking up at the statue of Christ, The Redeemer, and enjoying the limitless Brazilian sky above him. How free he must feel now, she thinks. He'll have a new face now, and Portuguese will be easy in his mouth. Soon, she thinks, he will come to her soon.

-  
**It's 2014, San Francisco** , and Hannibal Lecter is having tea with his aunt.

As planned, he joins her at a café near the water. The Countess Lecter, or her preferred title, Lady Murasaki Shikibu, doesn’t stand to embrace him, nor does she offer her cheek for a kiss. Instead, she allows him to take her hand, which he carefully and gently holds in his like a precious object. After a moment he lifts it to his mouth to kiss the inside of her palm. With all the dignity she can muster, she wills herself to remain calm.

"She cried for a whole week, your protégé," she tells him. "You should be ashamed of yourself." She watches grief cloud his face. He is older now, much older than she remembers him. He is a man, and a terrible thing. "She shows much promise though. Her French is improving."

"Thank you," he says, and he means it as his smile reaches his eyes. She looks down to see her hand is still in his. Warmth blossoms in all her forgotten corners. At his request, she had flown thousands of miles from her native Japan to visit him, momentarily leaving behind a little traumatized orphan girl. At his request, she is teaching the girl more than just language and manners. At his request, she would shape his heir into more than just a survivor.

Lady Murasaki looks at her nephew and sees herself reflected in his eyes. She can lie to the whole world, to every police inspector who knocks her door; she can never lie to herself.

The heart is the ultimate traitor.

They do not mention the girl again; but before he leaves, he gives Lady Murasaki letters and photographs for Abigail. Some of the letters include instructions. Some of the photographs are of Will Graham.

-  
**It's 2013, Baltimore** , and Will Graham has just shot Dr. Gideon outside of Alana Bloom's house.

Waking from dreamless sleep in a hospital bed, he sees bright eyes and dark hair waiting at his bedside, a small hand clutching his own. Blinking, and sure she's only a figment of the fever, he smiles. "Hello, baby." The words slip out of him like smoke, the shade of Garret Jacob Hobbs ghosting under his skin.

In his dreams, Abigail always smiles back and replies, "Hi, daddy."

In this reality, Abigail tenses and her fingernails dig into his skin. He looks beyond her to see an amused Hannibal, calmly watching.

He opens his mouth to apologize and Abigail interrupts him. "Are you up for a walk?"

The hospital cafeteria is nearly empty, so they share a cup of coffee in peace. She sits close to him, almost like a lover, and tells him how glad she is that he's safe. "We were so worried about you," she says. He looks for Hannibal, but they're alone.

His heart races a little, which is confusing; everything about Abigail Hobbs confuses him.

He doesn't mean to tell her much, but she pulls the story out of him in her clever, twisty way with words. She doesn't flinch when he admits to hallucinating her father, and being certain it was him in the flesh. She is more eager to hear him talk of shooting Gideon; she is somewhat distressed that he doesn't know if he actually killed him. It should unnerve him, but he feels at ease talking about this with her. He feels good.

When the visit is over, right before she leaves, Will takes her hand. “I don’t want you to go,” he breathes quietly and then laughs, abashed. She owes him nothing.

Abigail surprises him (surprises herself) by kissing him on the lips, chaste and sweet. It shocks him out of his embarrassment, and he shivers from something other than fever, other than fear.

“See you,” she says brightly, as if they had discussed merry things, as if he had not murdered her father, as if he wasn't holding onto her secret. He waves his fingers and bites his tongue over anything foolish that might come tumbling out of his mouth.

He doesn't see Hannibal turn his head just slightly, the kind smile on his face not reaching his eyes.

-  
**It's 2018, Amsterdam** , and Abigail is reading the first published academic paper by Dr. Lecter since his incarceration. Her work done, she can enjoy his voice in print.

Scribbled in the margins of the Journal of American Psychiatry are letters and numbers, all in her neat hand writing. Hannibal has no ability to write to her now. After all, she's dead, and his correspondence is examined by Dr. Chilton. But his instructions did include a cipher, just in case of a crisis.

Will Graham turning Hannibal over to be locked up for the rest of his life could be considered a crisis.

His message, hidden in his prose, is simple: **_Leave Graham out_**. She stares at the words before carefully drawing a line through them.

-  
**It's 2013, Baltimore** , and Abigail is listening to Will's confession that murdering her dad made him feel powerful; she is watching him nod as she repeatedly says how killing someone feels good.

She is feeling her heart twist in her chest as he looks her in the eyes and holds her gaze as warmly as he holds her hands in his. She is wondering what it would be like to kill a man together; how good it would make them both feel. She is hoping to erase every bit of her father by losing herself in what she's feeling in this very moment. She is falling just a little bit in love with him.

-  
**It's 2017, Wolf's Trap, Virginia** , and Will is reading the first published academic paper by Dr. Bloom since the trial.

The first time he saw Garret Jacob Hobbs’ name, Will was on the verge of losing hope and considering drowning in apathy. _I'm no savant, and those girls are dead. I can't help, can't avenge them. Leave it all behind, get back to the classroom, take Winston to the vet, try a new fishing line——no address to match the name **HOBBS**_ and his focus narrowed so sharply, he forgot to breathe.

It's five years since that day and he sees the name in Alana's latest (he keeps up with what she publishes, still afraid to find himself in her careful turn of phrase) and he runs his finger over those three words as if to blot it out of memory.

His first kill, his first victim (not the last) and he finds himself longing to tangle his fingers in Abigail’s hair, a gasp slowly seeping out of his throat. He tries, he really tries not to think about her, the taste of her, the smell of her blood, the feel of her skin when he held her hand.

When he dry heaves into the sink, nothing comes out; only a bitter taste, and a bitter memory.

-  
**It's 2012, Bloomington, Minnesota** , and four serial killers (past, present, and future) inhabit a bloody kitchen.

Garret Jacob Hobbs is looking his killer in the eye and thinking, "you're welcome."

-  
**It's 2022, Paris** , and Abigail wakes up to find her bed empty.

She tiptoes into the kitchen, finding coffee and croissants waiting for her, and her lover of two weeks sketching at the table. Groaning with pleasure, she takes a messy bite of the chocolate one, flaking crumbs everywhere, and moves towards him with her hands reaching to gratefully scratch his head.

When she sees what he's drawn, she stops her in her tracks.

He's sketched her face, badly, so badly that it's horrifyingly accurate: the missing ear has returned, and it's her old face, her Minnesota face, the wind chaffed daughter of a welder, very Mall of America. (She's had minor surgery in Japan, Canada; just enough to pass.) It's his mistake, he's not a great artist, he hardly knows anything about her. He thinks she's French, he thinks her name is actually Mischa. He thinks she couldn't harm a fly.

She twists his neck without registering what she's done. He slumps away from the table, and she lifts the sketch closer to her. Captured on the page: Abigail Hobbs, as was. She stares at it for a very long time; breakfast and a body forgotten.

When she finally looks down at the man she's killed, something in her gut twists, and she feels a certain surge of strength. It's her first since Nick Boyle.

Her fathers all had blood on their hands, more than one victim to their touch. Garret Jacob Hobbs' first was before Abigail was born; a hunter lost in the woods. Hannibal Lecter's first was also before Abigail was born; a misogynist, racist butcher in France. Will Graham's first was a serial killer who slashed viciously at his daughter's throat, claiming it would all end with this death.

None of them stopped after the first; none of them stopped after the second. Why should she?

The body, she easily deposes of.

The sketch, she mails to Marathon, Florida, ATTN: William Graham.

-  
**It's 2023, Marathon** , and it's been four years since Molly left him.

In his trailer in Florida, Will Graham is obsessed with the new serial killer in Florence. The papers, both local and international, call him Il Mostro, and warn locals and tourists alike. The Questura, led by the highly respected Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi, are clueless, lost, as to his identity, or how to catch him.

As Will shuts his eyes closed, Il Mostro is visible to him as the pendulum of his imagination swings back and forth. It's unusual for a serial killer to be a woman, but judging by her victims and the elaborate display of the lifeless bodies, Il Mostro most definitely is. She's in her 30s, possibly not Italian, definitely not native to Florence. She’s deformed in some manner, and she has a taste for the kill, and incredible aim. She’s showing off for someone, a benefactor perhaps. Love letters written in blood.

Will can ignore the truth as long as he can sleep the dreamless sleep at the end of a bottle. But once he is lulled to sleep by the sound of waves lapping against his boat and he wakes hours later with her name on his lips. He can still taste her in his mouth; but now his blood run colds when he heaves, for what will come out of him? What horror has he kept within the cage of his body since he first saw Abigail Hobbs and felt exactly what her father must have felt?

He could call the appropriate authorities, he could call Jack. He could ignore it completely. He could sell the boat and the trailer and buy a one way ticket to Italy. Half a bottle gone, and he’s feeling light, ephemeral now; his brain spins without focus and there is a blissful release from the darkness in his heart. He smiles at his glass and can see in it the whisper of his scars. Will looks down at his shaking fingers and wonders if he would finally become still if he could hold Abigail again.

-  
**It's 2011, near Bloomington, Minnesota** , and Garret Jacob Hobbs is teaching his daughter how to hunt.

She's a natural, strong arm and good aim; quick learner. There is a hesitation to her step, but practice will strengthen her. The thrill of the hunt will seduce her. Success will make her hungry for more. She's his daughter after all. They share the same traits.

Abigail looks to him before perfectly bringing down a stag. He wants to hold this moment in his heart forever. "My baby girl," he breathes and her cheeks color.

(When she leaves him with the first girl's address and details, her cheeks are the same precious, precious pink color. She is flushed and her breathing is uneven. He kisses her temple, and holds her close until she pushes away. He has a hard time letting go of her hand, and he wonders what she would do if he kissed her fingers. There are some lines he cannot cross, however.)

-  
**It's 2024, Marathon** , and it’s the end of another blindingly hot day.

At the local bar, the local drunk is at the bottom of another bottle. Over the past week, his tab's been paid for by a pretty woman (notably not his ex-wife). She's a bleach blonde with an elaborate headband covering her right ear; she orders the white and grimaces through the first few sips (born to taste better vintages). She brushes off any advance, and keeps away any hopeful who sees Will Graham's scarred and bearded face and thinks "that one's a keeper."

The bartender is charmed by her; some women love the thrill of the hunt. "We go way back, him and me," she tells him, and hands over cash. This isn't an establishment where questions are asked, so they're left alone: Will to his bourbon, unaware of the lion in the room.

When he passes out, she takes him to his trailer, and sits by his bedside, holding his hand and telling him about herself, about where she's been and a few of her rather interesting kills. In and out of consciousness, he smiles in his stupor and says endearments like, "that's nice," and more than once calls her by name. She expects him at any point to sober up and recognize her, but there is power in how firmly he believes in her death.

Being this close to him after all this time makes her feel giddy, and she almost loses her nerve. This was her idea after all. Hannibal wanted no part of Will Graham, said his first message, said other messages over the years; Will was to be left alone. Will was a lost cause.

A lot of blood had been shed since they last met; much of it, their own. With all the strength and cunning she can muster, Abigail will have her pound of flesh.

When he's asleep, she looks at his wall, plastered with news clippings about her misdeeds in Florence, about Hannibal's escape, and about _The Bride of Dracula_ , one of Tattle-Crime.com's more macabre epitaphs.

Abigail tries not to think about her. Special Agent Clarice Starling is close to her age, and would have appealed a great deal to Abigail's father. How easy they could be best friends, how much they have in common.

Behind some of the clippings, she can see Mason Verger's reward poster for Hannibal Lecter.She feels her face shift, become ugly, terrifying. She has an intense urge to pull down the poster and burn it.

Finally getting the nerve up, she stays one morning, makes him coffee and eggs, and waits for him.

Will never touches his breakfast; it cools as he panics between the steel walls of his trailer. Abigail watches him, sitting calmly next to the scissors that destroyed the phone and internet lines, ripped open his cell. She left him his guns, his knives. She trusts him not to murder the woman he was so sure he killed.

Eventually, he sits next to her, kisses her fingers, and says nothing.

At last: "I always suspected Hannibal would show up at my door, make me breakfast." After a moment, he continues: "And forgive me."

Abigail considers this. Will's face is a horror, Dolarhyde's work. "Do _you_ forgive him?"

"Do you?" he asks.

She laughs out loud. What is there to forgive? Between the blood on her kitchen floor, the lessons in Kyoto, her conquests in Europe, and the plan for Florence, she knows one truth: a monster hollowed her out and moved in, or: the monster was always there. She's never quite sure.

Leaning into his frame, her mouth at his ear: "Only pack what you need. I'm taking you with me."

Will has a 'no' on his lips, but obviously thinks the better of it.

(After, he doesn't touch the bottle for years.)

-  
**It's 2018, Kyoto, Japan** , and Lady Murasaki is answering an international call from an unknown number.

The voice on the other end, speaking flawless Japanese, makes the old woman smile. She's incredibly fond of the girl; little Abigail Hobbs turned out much brighter than her last protégé. (Lady Murasaki will not know how well Abigail can carve letters into man's chest; only that she can shoot a moving target from incredible distance.)

Abigail is calling for advice, as she will until death takes the Lady from this earth. For who else would Abigail call?

The issue is Hannibal's distaste for Will Graham, the issue is Will Graham's married and retired in Florida, the issue is that Abigail is lonely and hates waiting. The issue is Abigail has her own desires, and she wonders if she can adjust the master plan.

Lady Murasaki answers with kindness; she is pleased that unlike her nephew, Abigail has such a full heart.

-  
**It's 1983, Paris** , and a young man is telling the woman he loves that she is his favorite person in the whole world. He is being quite truthful.

Lady Murasaki knows what it is that beats so hard in his chest, and she knows it could be hers if she accepted it.

There are some lines she cannot cross.

-  
**It's 2024, Mexico City** , and two lovers are seated in first class, headed to Pisa.

To be fair, they play the part of lovers (Abigail refused to let Will play her father again), as they've done little else but sleep next to each other in tense silence.

As with everything she does, Abigail throws herself in the role with skill and accuracy. In hushed dulcet tones, she shows him excerpts from the four Tuscany guide books she bought and speaks in a broad Texas accent. She clutches at his hand and kisses between the new and old skin of his scarred cheek and calls him "sugar." It takes him a moment to get into character, but soon he is mirroring her quiet, saccharine act. They both charm the flight attendants into plying them with champagne and giving advice about the best places to visit in Cinque Terre.

It's different, wildly different than their last time together in first class.

Three glasses in and Abigail takes his face in her hands and kisses him. At this point in the flight, there is no audience watching that cares, but the act is dropped. Will shakes, almost like a seizure taking him. She pulls away just a moment to whisper his name and he softens immediately to her touch. He gives in, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss and taste her, and she's quietly gasping from how good it feels.

Will’s hand finds her shoulder and she pulls his fingers up to her neck. "It’s okay," she says and he grips her, almost too tight. His eyes close, and he trembles; she sees stars as she licks his mouth open again, holding on as if her life depended on it.

She knows the pattern now, knows the darkness she inspires in men's hearts. But like the yearning in her bones to hold a person’s life in her hands, it seems like they both struggle with desire and how it twists and turns in the beat of a heart.

At last she pulls away and they're both sweating and shaking and she is grateful they can't do much else than kiss in this public space. (Any more than this and they might actually kill each other.)

Will looks wrecked, feverish. He takes her hand and kisses her wrist right above her pulse. "Abigail, what happened to you?"

Her voice is hoarse now, but she manages it. "I survived."

-  
**It's 2012, Duluth, Minnesota** , and Abigail Hobbs is showering in her hotel room.

Everything's gone to plan this weekend, she thinks. The University of Minnesota Duluth looks pretty cool, and it's affordable. It'll be neat to be so close to Lake Superior, and Marissa had mentioned she might apply here. Her dad had put them up in a really nice Holiday Inn that had bath products in the bathroom, and HBO. After the campus tour, he had taken her to an Olive Garden, which was such a treat, and they had shared dessert. It was great, it was really great. And he hadn't mentioned anything about, well.

He hadn't mentioned anything about the thing.

Abigail runs her hands through her wet hair, massaging in the hotel conditioner and feeling fancy, and lightheaded.

On the campus tour, she and a girl from just outside Grand Rapids kind of gravitated towards each other, like it was chemistry thing or fate. Something like that. The girl had bent her ear like crazy: _we look like twins, are you my secret twin? Are you graduating next spring? Do you like this campus? You have twitter, right?_ It was so easy to fall in step with her, tease her back, ask questions of her own.

There's a piece of paper by the nightstand with all of the girl's information. Abigail had written it down in the bathroom at Olive Garden and stuffed it in to her purse. Tomorrow, maybe tomorrow, she would give it to her dad. For, maybe, the thing.

She hesitates before sliding her hand between her legs. Everything's gone to plan, she thinks. I'll be okay, we'll be okay.

Her eyes flutter close, and her fingers push hard and fast until she can't think of anything at all.

-  
**It's 1981, Paris** , and Lady Murasaki is impatient to finish the task at hand, so to speak.

Thinking of Robert is little help, he was never a very generous lover and she always took exquisite care to spare him exertion, pleasing him as gently as possible. He was good to her in other ways.

Thinking of Genji usually brought a smile to her face; a fanciful prince with hundreds of lovers, she would enjoy him in her bed.

Thinking of Popil was a new fantasy she enjoyed; how his anger, determination, and intelligence could have other uses.

No, she thinks abruptly, as images flutter into her mind, and she's immediately closer to coming. Hannibal's face between her thighs, his little cheeks flushed with pleasure, and his tongue moving just right against her. Horror is mixed evenly with pleasure; she should not be thinking of him, the little scared orphan in her house. His hands grip her, and she can feel his little pants of air against her skin as he gets worked up himself. At sixteen, he shouldn't be this well versed in bringing a woman to pleasure, but this is her fantasy. As the ache builds, she gives in and thinks of his mouth, his lips.

She comes hard against her fingers, and she holds back a moan in her throat. Shame should flood her senses now, but all she can feel is warmth.

-  
**It’s 1972, Copenhagen, Denmark** , and a mother is holding her daughter to her breast.

Her little son stares up at her, curiously; confused about the dark tangled feelings of jealousy in his tiny heart. Mischa suckles dutifully; she is a peaceful baby and will soon have her first milk teeth. The Countess Lecter is thinking about how grateful she is that they got out of Lithuania in before the Soviets started shipping families to Siberia. Her children will be safe in Denmark; they will be loved here.

There are letters to write to Robert and Murasaki, and there are bank accounts to set up in Switzerland, and a thousand other little worries. Simonetta has much to do.

Finished, Mischa is placed in her brother's arms, for him to comfort the sleepy, satiated baby. Hannibal looks at her and everything makes sense now. Mischa's serenity infects him, till he smiles and sings her favorite song.

-  
**It's 2024, Baltimore** , and it will be a very busy year. Will is still in Florida; Abigail is plotting in Florence; and Buffalo Bill is just starting to make a name for himself.

Hannibal's lawyer calls to inform him that his aunt has died, and that he was not mentioned in the will.

It's a terrible way to be told that the woman he loved is dead, and it unsteadies him. Hannibal knows that while unable to listen, Chilton will be watching the video feed with an eye for any reaction. So he buries his rage and his sadness by thinking of his lawyer and of Chilton cast into the oubliette of Lecter Castle, a dry stone well built by Hannibal the Grim in the twelfth century for his enemies to rot in, forgotten.

On the bright side, Hannibal also knows that now Abigail's future is secure. His aunt's money will, in some delightfully twisted way, go to Abigail's clandestine account in Switzerland. He also knows that the paintings and photographs and letters would all be shipped to a store house in Florence for them both to enjoy in the future.

Still, the world seems an emptier, uglier place without the Lady Murasaki Shikibu. Regret colors his cheeks, and he aches for the smell of cloves and oranges.

-  
**It's 2013, Kyoto** , and it's with more surety that the Lady Murasaki teaches another orphan how to be a monster with elegance, even grace.

When Abigail offers up Freddie Lounds' words, " _a very specific brand of hostility_ ", the Lady Murasaki tuts and shakes her head. "We will cure you of that," she says.

Her attitude softened by circumstance, Abigail does not resist lessons, endless lessons, and listens as her benefactor teaches her how to wear masks, how to be the most beautiful woman in the room, how to hide her tells, how to be the still hunter and make your game come to you. Lady Muraski, even in her eighties, is a master. Police across the world would burn any evidence against her.

After all, how else did Hannibal learn?

Lady Murasaki doesn't speak of Hannibal often, but she has many pictures of him, and many of his sketches. More than once, she catches Abigail staring at Hannibal's face, as to understand him in this still shot from his youth.

Lady Murasaki hands her a photo of a baby girl in a little boy's arms and tells her: "She is who you need to understand." What she doesn't tell Abigail is: You are his Mischa now.

An account is set up for her Switzerland and Hannibal will provide a healthy allowance (which continues even after his incarceration; his methods are thorough). "Where does all the money come from?" she asks. Lady Murasaki shakes her head. "Better not to ask."

Per his instructions, a new passport and papers are falsified for Judith Fell, an Italian born in Brazil with an art historian as a father. When she asks about the name, Lady Murasaki smiles and tells her it was her own addition to the scheme.

"When you travel to Rome, be sure to visit the Caravaggio. It's his favorite."

-  
**It's 2031, Florence** , and Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi of the Questura cannot quite tell who in the Salone dei Cinquecento is the renowned Dr. Fell.

His daughter is in the front row, a silk scarf around her head and neck. He follows her line of sight to see the man beside the great bronze statue of _Judith and Holofernes_. As Dr. Fell speaks, it is hard to know which figure the voice comes from: Judith, her sword forever raised to strike the drunken king, or Holofernes, gripped by the hair, or Dr. Fell, slender and still beside Donatello's bronze.

Pazzi does not notice that Dr. Fell's daughter has turned and is watching him watch her father. Her hands fists in her lap, aching for a knife.

-  
**It's 1983, Paris** , and a young woman, lovely in shredded Japanese silks, stabs someone in the throat to keep him from killing the man she loves.

Hot blood splatters on her face and what remains of her dress. There is a lot, a lot of blood in this hellish room, she thinks, and she is grateful that so little of it is hers.

Lady Murasaki stares into Hannibal's eyes. He is void of all expression, an empty shell that once held a traumatized little boy.

Is this what happens, she thinks, when you survive?

There is nothing she can do but jump in the Seine, wash off the tell-tale blood, and prepare to lie, and lie, and lie to the police. And with every breath, she thinks: I would have killed all of them for you. I would have done it all for you.

-  
**It's 2027, Florence** , and a young woman, lovely in Italian linens and leather shoes, stares at Artemisia Gentileschi's _Judith Beheading Holofernes_ and feels a kinship that warms her to the bone. To her, it's better than the Caravaggio, perhaps because a woman painted it.

Sometimes a woman needs to kill; sometimes a woman just wants to.

-  
**It's 2025, Viareggio** , and a detective has stopped by with some questions for Signorina Fell and her companion.

Will is more amused than nervous; amused to be on this side of an investigation, amused to see Abigail work, amused to let himself go and be the sociopath Hannibal so wanted Will to be.

If he really put his mind to it, he could be a worse monster than the Chesapeake Ripper. With his imagination and knowledge of how law enforcement works, there would be no limit to what he could do. It makes him giddy sometimes, just to think of it.

What would they think of him now, as he watches Abigail lie, and lie, and lie. He thinks of Eldon Stammets staring up at him and saying "I know who you're reaching for," and Will corroborates Abigail's story. She looks at him as he speaks, and her eyes are full of promise.

The detective leaves, charmed and confused and certain that the couple had nothing to do with the murder, and Abigail makes tea. "You're good at this," she says. "Hannibal would—"

Will shoots her a look and she stops, thinks about it, and finishes her sentence: "—be proud."

He thinks: **_Wind him up and watch him go._**

He thinks: **_"Graham home Marathon, Florida. Save yourself. Kill them all."_**

There is much he holds in the hollow of his heart, and there is a shuddering ache in the new skin of every one of his scars.

Abigail moves in close and leans against his shoulder, her lips at his neck. She breathes in and out until they are breathing at the same steady rhythm. "You're good at this," he echoes. "I'm sure he's—"

"He better be," Abigail mumbles, her fingers gripping his side, pulling him closer. "He better be."

-  
**It's 2013, New York City** , and Hannibal is taking Abigail shopping.

Soon after she bears her soul to him, he takes her on a trip to New York City to his favorite bespoke tailors. It’s unlike anything she’s done before, to have warm hands dress her like a doll while Hannibal sits back and nods his head yes or no while drinking tea. She has to tell her body to submit, to stand still or twirl or not flinch as a tailor takes her inseam measurements. The clothes are simple. He’s not dressing her in silks and finery yet; but oh, how he wishes to take her to Paris and parade her in linen suits and satin dresses, press Italian leather to her feet and pearls to her neck. That will come later. Today, the finery is in the tailoring, the detail, and the service. A wardrobe neatly purchased, beyond what any welder could afford for his beloved daughter.

She puts her arm in his and wonders how much fine clothes appeal to his aesthetic and sensual needs and how much they serve a purpose: to hide a monster in plain sight. She is learning a lot from him in these few, few days they have together.

When they arrive back at the Port Haven Psychiatric Hospital, she kisses his cheek, a dutiful daughter. He looks at her kindly. (And thinks: my heir, my daughter.)

-  
**It's 1995, Bloomington** , and Garret Jacob Hobbs is holding his daughter for the first time.

Deep blue eyes with dark lashes look up at him, and she is pink and gray and so very small. She feels so perfect in his arms, like she was always meant to be there.

He is falling deeply, deeply in love.

"You and me, forever," he tells the tiny mewling creature. (And thinks: my little one, my daughter)

-  
**It's 2024, Pisa, Italy** , and Abigail is fucking the man who killed her father and has damned Hannibal Lecter to life in a hospital for the criminally insane.

There's a time and place for the slow, steady pace of making love, kissing up and down his belly, pushing his face between her legs, testing the boundaries of intimacy with each other.

Now: she sinks down on him, and she lingers long enough to press her tongue in his mouth, breathing in the madness they share.

Then: he moves.

If she's being honest with herself, this is terrible sex. A complete lack of foreplay or any care given to her needy clit; the sounds they make together that must seem to any listening neighbor that they are unhappy, unfulfilled, perhaps dying in each other's arms; the rhythm they cannot yet figure out together, so focused on the act of completion without finesse; their mutual demons present in their minds.

But really, truly, it's better than she could have ever imagined. Messy, real, binding.

He comes inside of her and bites, claws at her, awkward claiming gestures that aren't lost on her. "Put your hands around my neck," she tells him and he's got her gasping for breath in moments. It's perfect.

He's still inside her, softening a little, as she rubs herself off, seeing spots.

"Stop," she says (she gasps). "Will."

His eyes find her, recognize her; recognizes himself. And lets go of her neck.

It's a rough start, and it's the herald of a whole new chapter in her life.

After: she calls about their furnished apartment in Viareggio, checks in on the storage house in Florence, and reads the latest entries on Tattle-Crime.com (there's an article about Hannibal the Cannibal being flown to Memphis to meet with Senator Martin).

"What happened to you?," Will repeats into the scarred, misshapen remnants of her right ear.

There's a lot she is still unwilling to tell him. So she says: "I learned from the best."

-  
**It's 2020, Baltimore** , and a nurse is getting an art history lesson from a madman.

Dr. Lecter is sitting on the floor, crossed legged with his back to the glass. He is staring at his pencil sketch of old Florence from the Belvedere, and his voice is impeccably calm. Barney is quite aware of the danger in leaning into that calm, centering himself in it, and listening to the words spoken by an infamous mouth.

"There's precision and thought in the way he conveyed the morning light. He painted slowly, obsessively. I can understand that. There is no moral to his art, no allegory, no flight of fancy."

Barney adds, "Moments frozen in amber."

Sucking in the stale air, Dr. Lecter looks pleased, if only from profile. Barney can't quite see his full expression from the other side of the glass.

"How lovely it is to see a woman bathed in sunlight."

Barney considers this, and how it's been four years since Dr. Lecter's seen the sun. He considers how unlikely it is that he will ever see daylight again.

"You know, Vermeer never left Delft, and his masterpieces are all over the world now. Wandering stars, I suppose. You should visit his work, Barney. There are only 35 or so. In the presence of the actual painting, you'll see his use of color is incomparable."

Chuckling, Barney interrupts, "I'm not one to visit an art gallery, doctor."

"Nonsense, the National Gallery has four of them, and there are eight in New York. It is necessary to see Vermeer in person, Barney. You need to see his canvas for the full effect." Dr. Lecter hums something Barney doesn't recognize.

(Hannibal is thinking of _View of Delft_ ; he is thinking of taking Abigail to see it. He can close his eyes and be in The Hague; see the beautifully classicist structure of the Mauritshuis with its pilasters and Ionic capitals, stand in the room and feel Abigail pull him away. She is touched by _Diana and her Companions_ , and the darkness shrouding Vermeer's women. Her voice whispers in his ear as she tugs on his arm. "This is just before she's seen," she will say. Just before Diana turns Actaeon into a stag. He will touch her forehead, draw the moon on his huntress, and listen to her voice. Her arm will be in his as they push through the crowd to see Vermeer's most famous piece housed in the artist's motherland. It will be a remarkable excursion he will savor forever. )

"I look forward to revisiting my favorites." His humming continues.

Barney shifts feet. Dr. Lecter's sentence is life here under Chilton, in the depths of this dungeon.

Looking up, Dr. Lecter catches Barney's gaze and his smile is both strange and blithe. "My incarceration is an inconvenience, Barney. Nothing more."

There are many madmen in the hospital, and there is Hannibal Lecter. Who really knows what he is?

"Thank you, Barney, I do enjoy our talks."

The dismissal is clear. To leave Hannibal Lecter's presence is always a shock, as if the waves have slid back into the sea leaving dry sand. All serenity is lost when the screams, the whimpers, the terse ramblings fill his ears.

Perhaps, perhaps, he will take the train to DC on his next day off.

-  
**It's 2016, Baltimore** , and tomorrow, Will Graham is going to arrest Hannibal Lecter for being the Chesapeake Ripper, and be rewarded with a linoleum knife in the belly for his trouble.

Hannibal calls long distance to a burner cell.

On the third ring: "Pronto."

"Abigail," he says. "Tell me about your day."

In perfect Italian, she launches into a discussion on Rossini's _La Cenerentola_ and the qualities of a mezzo's stability during "Non più mesta." They debate the techniques of Joyce DiDonato and Frederica von Stade, and Hannibal can't help but feel energized by her.

A pause and he interrupts in English: "I no longer trust Will Graham."

"Oh." She lets out a breath that seems to curve into his lungs. She has a staggering pull on him.

"You know how this is going to end."

"On your terms."

Hannibal is silent for a long time. He had a lot of plans for Will, a lot of plans for the three of them. He wants to watch them stare at the Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo, seen from the Belvedere. Now he only sees her there, beaming at him as he shows her around the city. It's enough.

There is steel in her own mezzo as she says: "I wish I could protect you."

What can Hannibal say but: "Goodnight, dear."

Hannibal calmly puts on the second section of Carl Orff's famous cantata. From the speakers placed throughout his home, he listens to the ringing voice of the opening baritone solo and breathes through his rage.

-  
**It's 2031, Florence** , the most beautiful city in the world.

It is now seven years since Hannibal tricked and escaped the Memphis police, twelve years since Dolarhyde plunged a knife in Will's face, and eighteen years since Abigail agreed to have her ear be cut off by a madman.

Abigail watches as Hannibal Lecter steps off the bus from Pisa, and breathes in the Tuscan air. His face is new; there are new angles and his nose has an imperious arch like that of Perón. Between the FBI and the ever searching eyes and ears of Mason Verger, Hannibal has a healthy concern about recognition. And even at a distance, she can tell that more than his face has changed since she last saw him, before he spent eight years under Chilton.

Good, she thinks, I've changed too.

"Daddy," she says, approaching him. He smiles, plays the dutiful father, the art historian Dr. Fell. With his arm wide for an embrace, he pulls her in close. Abigail surprises herself (surprises him) by kissing him on the lips, chaste and sweet. When she pulls away, he takes her in, draws a line along the faded scar on her neck, the wrinkle where her ear once was, the features of her face altered by plastic surgery. His eyes are wet, which pleases her more than she'd care to admit.

The words slide carefully out of her mouth: "I have a surprise for you at home."

Home is a marvelous three bedroom apartment between the mosque and the synagogue, rented out from the elderly landlord who can no longer climb the stairs to live in it himself.

When she opens the door and Will looks up at them from the window seat, she takes pleasure in Hannibal's surprise. (It is feigned, all a show; he knew what the surprise was as soon as he tasted Abigail's lips and smelled her hair. There are scents he never forgets.)

Will stays inhumanly calm. (He has learned much from Abigail in their years together.)

Hannibal does not move either. (Knowing is one thing, seeing is another thing entirely.)

Abigail breathes in and tastes the madness in the air. Without her as the conduit, as the focal point, she knows Will and Hannibal would tear each other apart, clawing at scars and drowning in the bitter poison of betrayal.

But they are all here, together, on her terms. They can't kill each other, not now. There is anger and rage, yes; but there will be forgiveness. They are written on each other's bodies, in her lungs and in Will's hands, in a language only Hannibal speaks.

Minnesota is a lifetime ago.

## III. a phone call

  * Would you state your business please?
  * I may have information about Hannibal Lecter.
  * Yes, well, thank you for calling. Do you know where he is now?
  * I believe so. Is the reward in effect?
  * Yes, it is.



## IV. day in the life

When Dr. Fell was granted interim curator for the Capponi Library, the attic of the grand Palazzo Capponi was made available to him to live in. Three of the whitewashed walls are bare. On the fourth wall hangs a large thirteenth century Madonna of the Cimabue school, enormous in the little room, her head bent at the signature angle like that of a curious bird, and her almond eyes regarding a small figure waking up beneath the painting.

Abigail opens her eyes, tangled in the sheets, but alone. She is content in the lingering warmth of body heat; she is content in her design for today.

At her request, Hannibal and Will have multiple appointments this morning with tailors, and she bought them a pair of afternoon tickets for the Atrocious Torture Instruments exposition at the Forte di Belvedere. She knows how they enjoy their days together, as long as they have plenty to keep each other occupied. (They grow tense when they have nothing to do, and the past creeps into the peripheries of their enormous collective intellect; Abigail, and their constant fascination with her, keeps them distracted.)

After all, today, she needs them out, out of the house, out of the way.

(Earlier she had groaned out, "too much champagne, too much cheese, I hate youuuuu,” while hiding further under sheets.

"You lack subtlety, Abigail," Hannibal had quietly intoned.

"Go show our boy a good time," she threw back at him, a muffled voice under Egyptian cotton sheets.)

The servants are gone today and the Capponi family have been away for months, an extended vacation to Prague. (The noble count calls Hannibal every Thursday morning and medieval Italian rings again in the halls of the palazzo. "Niccolò is a prince among men," Hannibal told her once, and shown her how the count can trace his line back to Machiavelli.) She cleared the palazzo's visitor schedule - no tourists to show around or historians to converse with as they peer gleefully through the library, hungry to read Dante Alighieri's correspondence to Tuscan nobility.

So she will be alone in the great house. Breathing in the air, she squeezes her legs together and smiles dreamily up at the watchful Madonna. Mason Verger was always a very real threat to her happiness; but now even more so. Today she will take a step to cauterize the wound. Nothing and no one will take this life, or her family from her; never again.

A quick shower is followed by the careful arrangement of the appropriate dress for an auspicious day. Her outfit is conservative, and expensive. All her life, she's noticed how men don't take her very seriously in braids, so she neatly arranges her newly long hair in simple plaits. A scarf covers her ear, or lack of one. There had been talk of surgery to replace it, and she had waved them off with "perhaps next year." She likes the reminder of what she lost.

In the mirror, she looks like a spoiled little princess; in her heart, she sees a viper ready to strike.

Drinking a cappuccino for her breakfast, she checks the well-stocked pantry for the fava beans she purchased earlier. She checks the cellar for the perfect vintage of Amarone and bags of cement. Tomorrow, she will make a variation of _fegatelli di maiale al finocchio_ , a Tuscan favorite. There's a pork liver or two in the freezer.

Out on the balcony, she covers up with an extra scarf and wide brimmed hat, and sketches the Arno. Lady Murasaki had taught her the arts; Hannibal had fine-tuned her skills. So close to the Ponte Vecchio and its siren call to tourists, she finds the Palazzo Capponi often in tourist photographs posted online and shared with friends abroad. Important to hide in plain sight, she thinks.

Following her sketching, she plays the beautiful piano in the Red Room and considers practicing the duets she's learning with Hannibal. Phillip Glass is her favorite; but Hannibal always returns to Bach. Waiting, she loses herself in the music.

*  
At half past eleven, the doorbell rings. Barefoot, she walks patiently to the security video and hits the intercom. "Buon giorno."

Her guest of honor at the opulent doors of the palazzo flinches at her voice. He was expecting someone else, she knows.

"Signorina Fell, it's Inspector Pazzi," he says.

"Yes, I can see that," she replies.

He looks up at the camera and waves, unnerved.

"My father is out, but he asked me to give you those items you requested. I will need your help carrying them." She releases the lock with a button. "Come on up," she says.

Pazzi and she are old enemies, though he does not know this. She is Il Mostro, the serial killer he has been unable to catch. As a result of his failure, he is disgraced at the Questura, disgraced in the papers and by the American FBI who once so gleefully invited him to their shores to visit. He is a shame to his family, and a great disappointment to his wife.

Abigail has made him a desperate man.

Pazzi and she are new enemies now, though he does not know this. Despite his failure with Il Mostro, he is, on the whole, not a bad detective. Hannibal's disguise is not perfect. An intelligent man would turn Hannibal in.

A desperate man would turn Hannibal over.

Abigail sits in a dark corner of the Red Room, and she waits. Pazzi is nominally here for the two suitcases in the middle of the room, with the promised inventory on top of them. They are the personal effects of one Signore di Bonaventura, the previous curator of the Capponi Library. Their owner is said to be missing, having eloped with a woman or someone's money or both. Abigail knows exactly where the old man is resting; downstairs mixed in with two bags of cement.

As Pazzi wanders in, he ignores the suitcases, looking for her and anything that could have the fingerprints of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, MD. Proof of one fingerprint sent to Mason Verger's lawyers in Paris will increase Pazzi's finances greatly; following that, leading Mason's hired thugs to Hannibal will make Pazzi rich enough to retire and provide the kind of life his wife would like to lead.

Near the door to the next room, he finds a forgotten glass of limoncello, accompanied by shards of parmesan and good Italian bread. Yes, Abigail thinks, Hannibal's precious fingerprints cover the glass and china. Good boy.

"Commendatore," she says.

He turns sharply at her voice, and finds her in the dark. "Signorina Fell," he says. All she sees is a stag moving towards her, unaware as she readies for the kill.

She holds up a demitasse cup with espresso for him. "Please," she says, thinking of Lady Murasaki and Inspector Popil in Paris; of what women may do to protect those they love.

Pazzi hesitates before taking it, and hesitates before sitting down next to her in a chair from the fifteenth century. A Pazzi of the Pazzi Family, he should be at home here in the raised ceilings and gorgeous opulence of the Florentine Renaissance. She pictures him here with the Medici and Capponi, discussing art and trade and longing for full coffers and beautiful women.

She thinks: You can never escape your family blood.

He drinks his espresso, and coughs at the flavor.

"I’ve read about you," she says. She knows everything about him; she knows what he's done, she knows who he has contacted. "I’ve read about your trip to Quantico. What you must have learned there. All of Il Mostro’s American cousins."

(In the Behavioral Science Division at Quantico, close to Jack Crawford's office, there is a photograph of the American serial killer, Hannibal Lecter. Behind him is pencil drawing, shaded with charcoal. It is of old Florence from the Belvedere. Hannibal drew it from memory, every detail. It was what he had instead of a view. Zeller had taken the visiting Pazzi to see it, eager to show off a bit of Italy and "local color." Pazzi had not forgotten that little gem from his visit, especially when he had met the cultured and shockingly probing Dr. Fell. Will Graham was not the only detective who made leaps without evidence.)

"Any developments in the Il Mostro case?" she asks.

"No, Signorina," he replies.

"Abigail, call me Abigail."

He frowns, confused.

She continues: "Il Mostro's victims were always displayed like various Judith and Holofernes paintings. Did you ever think to check subjects' homes to see if they have any prints of Gentileschi or Caravaggio, copies of Donatello?"

"That would be rather obvious, wouldn't it?" he says without any heat behind it.

"Serial killers _are_ obvious. Their primary motivation is to be obvious, to be noticed."

"But not caught."

"How do you think Will Graham caught Hannibal Lecter, Commendatore? You're not at all a new student of the case, tell me what you think."

Pazzi opens his mouth and then closes it. Nervously, he downs the rest of his espresso and places it on the table.

"I think," she continues as he sits uncomfortably, "I think it takes a much smarter man than you to catch Dr. Lecter."

He stares at her, shock and a foreign numb feeling rushing through his system.

"You contacted Mason Verger for the bounty on Dr. Lecter's head," she says, and shakes her head. "You could have taken him legally, and become a hero of the people. You'd have caught your nemesis too. In the resulting investigation into Dr. Fell and his family, you would have found a copy of the Gentileschi in my apartment."

Gently, Abigail raises her hands to her face and removes her head scarf. As she tilts her head to the side, the missing ear is very much visible. "Do I have your attention now?"

His mouth is slightly agape, and his body seems frozen. (He knows her case, he knows exactly who she is; he's studied the FBI file over and over, looking for every detail. While damned and dirty now, he will always be a good detective.)

"We both come from a family of murderers, I believe. Your ancestor was accused of killing Giuliano de' Medici, am I right?"

He blinks, nods.

"The Medici hanged him at the Palazzo Vecchio, I believe. Thrown naked with a noose around his neck from the window, with his bowels hanging out. Messy business."

Pazzi's eyes glaze over.

"The Medici were usually more subtle in their methods.” She takes a sip of her drink.

Pazzi leans his head back, unable to hold it up.

“You’re lucky, Commendatore. You're lucky it was me and not my father who dealt with you." She tuts and stands to her full height.

He stares up at her, helpless and unable to move as his body dies around him.

“Don’t worry, your wife will be safe. We may even have her for dinner.”

She watches the rest, watches his chest rise and fall until it doesn’t.

*  
In the Piazza della Signoria, tourists and locals alike look up at Benvenuto Cellini's _Perseus with the Head of Medusa_ , a bronze sculpture commissioned by the Medici to warn enemies of their probable fate. The noble hero stands in triumph on the body of the monstrous woman he has slain, her horrible head in his hands. The snakes of her hair are subdued in death, a stark difference to the ringlets of poisonous blood emerging from her neck. Over four hundred years, man's triumph over the monster for all to see.

Abigail Hobbs walks around the base of the statue, staring at all the statues of men that surround Medusa's head – Hercules, Neptune, Holofernes, Giambologna's rapists, and even Michelangelo's beautiful copy of David. All these strong, great men; frozen forever within her gaze.

She stays at the foot of Medusa for a long time, with the sunlight warm on her face.

*  
Abigail finds Hannibal in the kitchen when she returns to the palazzo. He's making notes for the weekend's shopping, and drinking a glass of Sancerre. She watches him at work from the doorway and considers what it would be like to lose him. Considers what Mason would do to him. From what she's read about the Vergers, death would be the last item on the checklist.

It's a crutch, but she begins to hum a song Lady Murasaki taught her. It's a comforting little tune. The words are foreign and harsh in her mouth, but the song, like so much of what Lady Murasaki taught her, crept into her marrow and blood and Abigail finds herself singing, the words now like her mother tongue.

Hannibal's back straightens, and he grips at the counter. She doesn't ask questions. For all he says about warding off nightmares, she knows the name on his lips when his dreams turn dark.

She thinks: you understand loss.

She thinks: I can't lose you.

He tugs on one of her braids and looks as if he finally understands.

"You've done something," he says.

"Come and see."

In the cellar, Hannibal peers over Pazzi's remains. She hasn't cut him for meat; the poison wrecked any hope of honoring every part of him. Abigail grins recklessly and wipes the sweat off her face, leaving the tale-tell smudge of blood on her skin.

(He stares, openly, and is frozen in place. Abigail Hobbs, a masterpiece, and his legacy. The return on his investment is tenfold.) "I've never seen anything more beautiful," he says, meaning it.

She offers her face up for a kiss and he obliges her.

"He knew who you were," she says when he pulls away. "He contacted Mason."

Hannibal looks amused more than anything. "How did you know?"

She does not tell all her secrets. "Mason is a problem. Us being here is a problem, for you. We should go," she says, meaning it.

He doesn't respond.

It's a risk, but Abigail is no coward. "Clarice," she says. "Clarice is a problem." She does not know about the skin creams purchased and mailed today. (Hannibal does not tell all his secrets.)

He smiles at this, and his hand touches her cheek. "Florence is our home," he says.

She thinks: You are my home.

*  
There’s a dinner on a terrace near the Arno (private residence, one of the library’s wealthier patrons), and the elegant Fell family is invited. Dinner parties always make Hannibal cross because he can no longer host his own; some public acts are more dangerous than others. Abigail loves them, for she loves every moment of this strange world of theirs.

Arriving in Hannibal’s black supercharged Jaguar, an elegant XJ with Swiss plates, the family emerges: Abigail, in fine silks, perfume, and high heels; Hannibal and Will in exquisite bespoke suits.

Her dress is a deep purple, the color Hannibal favors to see her wear. The ancients considered it the color of nobility as Phoenician purple dye was painstakingly collected from a certain species of predatory sea snails. She assumes he likes her in the color as an elevation of status. She is a welder's daughter no more. (She is not quite right in her assumption. Mischa loved purple, loved the color aubergine, as long as she lived.)

Getting Will used to finery was an ordeal at first, but he grew into it for Hannibal's sake. Abigail takes extra care that Will is washed, shaved, and perfectly dressed. Will no longer looks in the mirror, but watches how others see him, greet him. Glad rags suit his handsome features well.

While they've all undergone some plastic surgery, the scars on Will's face remain. With a new haircut, a close shave, colored contacts, and suits that no g-man could think of affording, Will is worlds away from the man he was. While they certainly have the funds to invest in returning his face to normal, Hannibal loves, loves, loves to look upon the wondrous art that he himself created.

Tonight, they dutifully play their public roles: Dr. Fell, the art historian; Judith Fell, his adoring daughter; Mr. Alan Bloom, her quiet, quiet plus one. They are exactly the type of persons you would want at a dinner party; handsome, excellent at conversation, and very appreciative to the hostess.

"How long have you known the good doctor and his lovely daughter?" The hostess asks Will, handing over Moët in a crystal flute.

Will smiles, and the scars ache in his skin. "A lifetime or two," he replies and hopes his smile is charming enough. (It is, oh, it is.)

Dinner starts with a seared foie gras with candied apple, orange reduction, and scallions. It is followed with a caramelized onion tart, French goat cheese, and balsamic. The salad is fresh hearts of palm, avocado, lime, and first press olive oil. Sweetbreads follow, served with a fricassee of spring morels and asparagus. The main course is a poached black bass, with littleneck clams, apple smoked bacon, and peppers. The wine is a white Burgundy, and generously poured.

Abigail watches Hannibal's face as he delights in the artful presentation of each course, and as he hungers for sweeter meat with every bite.

After Vin Santo is poured and biscotti are placed around the table, another guest of the hostess speaks in hushed, excited tones: "We should talk about this girl in the FBI," she says. "This new _Angelo della Morte_ in the states," she says. "She's killed again, some woman holding a baby in her arms in a fish market. I read it in the papers," she says. "You know this girl, she's the one obsessed with that _cannibal_ , what was his name, you know?"

The hostess drops her demitasse spoon on the table, completely appalled.

Will raises his glass. "For all the talk of medieval justice and the machinations of the Medici that have graced this table, no one wants to hear a sordid story of some _American's_ obsession with a serial killer." It's the most he's ever said at one of these dinners.

"Here, here," the hostess says, gratefully.

Hannibal searches for Abigail's hand under the table, and finds her griping a dinner knife. She looks at him, all ease and amusement for show; but her eyes are dark.

He thinks: that's my girl.

*  
After: they wind up tangled together in the attic again. It's not common practice as Hannibal has very specific appetites, and sex is not often one of them. Most of the time, Will and Abigail leave him to his attic for their apartment together. Tonight, he won't let either of them go.

The Palazzo Capponi has been home to murderers before; and it has always been a safe haven for lovers since the last stone was placed in 1426.

Beautiful clothes are left, momentarily forgotten, on the attic floor; all three are in more than a hurry to feel that familiar slide of flesh against flesh. Abigail watches as Hannibal works to take Will apart quickly. She feels a heady rush realizing that Hannibal is tiring Will out with such pleasant satisfaction so that he can take his time with her. Pressed between a mattress and a madman, Will is writhing as Hannibal's mouth takes Will's dick. Hannibal steadies himself against Will's thigh with one hand and tangles his other hand in Abigail's hair, tugging it to ensure that she watches.

Her eyes linger on his mouth before staring up at Will's face; torn up and so beautiful. Hannibal is relentless, and Will starts to keen before a jumble of both their names tumbles out of his mouth. She gasps as Hannibal yanks hard on her hair; he is swallowing as Will comes in his mouth. His throat constricts and releases, and she watches with a warm feeling rising in her. Abigail could watch this every night if they were up for it, these aging men, these once enemies, this matched pair. Hannibal pulls away from Will's dick and slides his tongue up his belly, slides it along Will's scar from a linoleum knife. Someone whimpers in the half light, and Abigail is not quite sure who.

Hannibal releases her hair and she scrambles up to kiss Will's gasping lips, but Hannibal pulls her away, lays her on her back and away from Will. "No," he says. "Not yet." Will looks disappointed but doesn't fight back; Abigail narrows her eyes. No, no, no, she thinks, for she is hungry for a kiss; her mouth is empty and her heart is full.

Lowering himself over her, Hannibal pins her tight beneath him. She glares and he shakes his head, his hand sliding between her legs. He pulls one of her legs further away from the other, and his fingers touch her almost immediately. She buckles beneath him, and she's so wet that she blushes. "Kiss me," she says.

He shakes his head and smiles and rubs his fingers against her clit until she's biting her lip and looking away. She's going to be begging soon; it's inevitable. Will slides his hand towards her as well, and works his fingers inside her in a steady, wonderful rhythm.

"Someone kiss me, please," she demands. Hannibal gives her the most imperious stare in response, and continues his dreadful task of shattering her.

As she grows close, he calls out Will's name. Adjusting, Will appears in her eyesight and Hannibal leans in to kiss his lips, gently, teasing. It's too much for her. Abigail watches as Will opens his mouth to let Hannibal deepen the kiss; she begs again. "Please."

Will pulls away and mirrors Hannibal's imperious stare; they are just alike when their agendas are matched. They are unstoppable forces, fingering her till she comes, crying out in short little sobs. Hannibal continues his caress until it's painful and she gasps out and scratches his arm. Smug and focused, he adjusts his position so that her breasts are free for him to tease, his tongue licking her skin and teeth teasing her nipple; all the while, his fingers renew their movements against her where she's more and more sensitive.

Her second orgasm is much longer than the first, and she breathes through it with a growing ache in her heart.

Will is staring at her face, and when she feels human again she raises her eyebrows. He traces his fingers along her scar, and she arches her neck, her skin so very sensitive to the touch. "You looked like you were dying," Will says. Abigail breathes in; Will, ever deliciously strange. Every inch of her skin tingles.

Raising herself up on her elbows, she considers what is next. Hannibal is at half-mast, and she wonders when he will bury it inside of her, or Will. "Can someone please kiss me now?" she asks, wondering if a pout would work, or a show of strength, to get what she wants.

Hannibal shakes his head and licks again at her nipple before sliding down to lick the throbbing place between her legs. Her head falls back against the pillows and she looks up to the Madonna for mercy. Will's face looms over her for a moment, and he steals a quick kiss from her lips before sheepishly moving away as Abigail cries out; Hannibal is ever relentless.

There is a lot of to be said about Hannibal's mouth; the poetry he speaks, the lies he tells, the food he eats, the teeth he bares. When it's pressed against Abigail's cunt, she feels blinded from pleasure and a quiet sensation of fear. All those years ago, he could have murdered her in her kitchen. There was no reason to keep her alive, except, except, except.

Again, and ever more beautifully, she comes with her hand tangled in Will's curls, imagining the blood spilled between the three of them since they met in her kitchen. A terrible, incredible image; she pulls so tight on Will's hair that he fights her, pulls out of her grip. She gasps, reaching for him. Hannibal fills her arms instead, and she is granted, at last, a kiss. His mouth is all salt and heat and she shudders, overwhelmed.

He kisses her mouth with purpose and dexterity, and Abigail could just lie here for a century with only his kiss to keep her fed. She licks the top of his lip. "I can't lose you," she says. "We can't, we can't be stupid." Abigail pulls him closer, her legs around his waist, his dick hard against her. Will is watching, so she grabs his hand and presses it to her mouth, sucks on Will's fingers, kisses his knuckles, pulls his palm up to press her lips against his wrist.

"Now," Hannibal says and she knows what he means; Hannibal has a favored position for the three of them and they are usually willing. Will lies on his back, Abigail hovers over him on her hands and knees, and Hannibal presses in deep from behind. He is fond of making love to them in various stances, but this is his favorite. It is important to Hannibal that he never fucks either of them alone. Perhaps he sees them as one entity; perhaps he's can't trust himself alone with Will after everything they've been through.

She stares at Will's open, dark eyes as Hannibal drives into her with broad, strong strokes. Will whispers encouragements, to both of them. Abigail wonders how they could have possibly enjoyed Florence without Will, how the plan could have been perfect without him. Impossible, she thinks. Pressed deep inside of her, Hannibal stops and takes a breath; he's not a young man. She clenches against his dick; not desperate for him to finish (she feels half blissed out, half numb right now; her needs are more complex right now than simple pleasure). "Change," she says, and he pulls out, lets her rearrange them. She sits on his lap, and does the work herself, thrusting herself on his dick in a steady rhythm.

"Come on," she says. "I've got you."

Hannibal lets go of his careful, careful restraint and his hips buck against hers wildly. His head rolls back and his face is feral, wrecked, and terrifying. (If she only knew how much her face mirrored his; Will can only stare in wonder.) When Hannibal's finally in the last throes of release, his eyes meet hers, and they are red, like two maroon lights.

"That's my boy," she tells him, and she presses a kiss to his temple.

As Hannibal breathes through it, regaining his composure, Will pulls her up and into his arms. She is willing, ever willing to taste his mouth again. They hold each other close as Hannibal recovers. There is a comfort in Will's arms. Like coming home, like finding her center.

Moments pass, and Hannibal stands, cleans himself off and leaves. This is customary; and now alone, Will and Abigail become playful. He teases at her wet, wet opening with scissoring fingers. She bites at his neck and blows in his ear. With or without Hannibal, she claims Will's body as much as she has claimed his future.

Hannibal returns, still nude, with three glasses on a silver tray; he has very specific appetites. They cannot fall asleep with just the taste of each other on their lips, there must be some sweet or bitter alcohol taste to mingle in with the brine and copper. Tonight, they drink bourbon. Abigail teases them both by pressing drops of it to her skin and watching them lap it up. Hannibal can sometimes have a dark look in his eyes when he puts his mouth to her breast, so she encourages him to do it as often as she can. There's still a full hornet's nest in the madman's mind and she will do everything in her power to keep him hers.

Her actions today have kept her boys safe. Let the world, let Mason Verger himself, beware.

*  
The sun has set hours ago, and this strange, strange family finally curls up to sleep; sticky limbs and callused fingers pressed against each other. Let them sleep, for now.

## V. an interlude

**_This is what could have happened:_ **

  * In an empty kitchen, Hannibal Lecter gives the young Abigail a mercifully quick death, and her blood once more paints the floor. He regrets it as soon as he does it; thinking of Mischa, and hoping that one day he will meet another young woman, shattered yet resilient. An element of strength, stability; somewhere roughly between iron and silver.


  * Will Graham remains in Florida, and hardly ever looks at himself in the mirror. Molly stays with him, or she doesn’t. Who can tell? His story is over; no one thinks of him, or if they do it is with a wince and with pity.


  * Feeling the rush his doomed ancestor Francesco de'Pazzi must have felt, Rinaldo Pazzi is triumphant, and his coffers are full with the advance from Mason Verger. Yet: he will never get to spend that money, for Hannibal flings him from the balcony of the Ponte Vecchio, hanging by the neck with his bowels hanging out. It is a messy business.


  * Mason Verger, notified by Pazzi that Hannibal lives in Florence and notified by Paul Krendler that Hannibal is now shadowing Clarice stateside, handles matters the way he knows best: with thugs, with money, with manipulation, with a horrifying agenda. He orders the pigs be transferred to his property, and looks forward to the real life horror of his darkest fantasies.


  * Count Niccolò Capponi clutches at his chest when Italian authorities inform him of the monster once in his employ. “I refuse to believe he's a multiple homicide. A person with so much culture, whom I had long discussions with about the archives and about historical matters can't be a killer,” he tells _La Nazione_.


  * Special Agent Clarice Starling looks up from Hannibal's note ( _Did you ever think, Clarice, why the Philistines don't understand you?_ ) at Paul Krendler's mocking face and considers throwing him down Jame Gumb's well and leaving him to rot, forgotten. She is brutally discharged, she is thrown aside, she is used as bait, she is universally denied her agency by the men in her life.


  * The pigs, beautiful in their monstrosity, smell Hannibal in their midst, and find him to be no threat; of no interest to them completely. There are others nearby, exuding fear and making loud cries which interest the pigs, starved and hoping for satisfaction. The lone survivor of Carlo’s men will whisper frantically in Margot’s ear: _I think they worship him, you should not chase him anymore._


  * Mason Verger watches helpless as two women tear apart his master plan: that FBI cunt who ruins his revenge and his dyke sister who brings him a painful oblivion.


  * Margot Verger’s total victory is brutal; from the cruel collection of her brother's viable sperm, to the violence of fratricide, to the careful removal of evidence. (Though, to be fair, everything about Margot has been brutal since the trauma of her youth.) Her beloved Judy bears Mason’s son. Together, they have millions to spend, authority to wield, and secrets to keep. And a son with Mason’s face.


  * Judy Ingram Verger prays her son does not have his dead uncle’s temperament, or desires.


  * The reeducation of Clarice Starling is methodical and performed with the directness of a therapist, the sharp edges of a sociopath, and the compassion of a man in love. In dark rooms, a hazy Clarice denounces the men who have ruined her with the psilocybin rushing through her veins. She emerges out from the chrysalis with a voice and will of her own. Hannibal is sometimes frightened of her.


  * Deputy Assistant Inspector General Paul Krendler’s brains are prepared in this fashion:  

    * Melt a knob of Charante butter and brown the butterfat to make beurrenoisette
    * Add shallots and minced caper berries
    * Cut slices of the prefrontal lobe from the living subject at the table, and place quickly in a bowl of ice water mixed with lemon juice to firm the meat
    * Dredge the now firmed slices of brain in seasoned flour, and then in fresh brioche crumbs
    * Grate fresh black truffle in the beurrenoisette and add a squeeze of lemon juice
    * Sautee the brain slices until brown on each side
    * Place on broad croutons
    * Dress with the sauce and slices of truffles, as well as parsley and whole caper berries with their stems
    * Add a single nasturtium blossom on watercress to achieve a little height
    * Serve immediately


  * With a mix of hush money and his gains from selling Lecter memorabilia, Barney Matthews travels the world to view every Vermeer. Each time he sees the masterpiece in the artist's canvas, he feels his heart in his mouth. He sees them all except the one in Buenos Aires.


  * In Argentina, there are two lovers living happily in an exquisite Beaux Arts building near the French Embassy in Buenos Aires. Sometimes our couple dances at dinnertime. Sometimes they do not finish dinner.


  * Jack Crawford lies dying in Jefferson Memorial Hospital; he is thinking of Bella, and how once more he will hold her hand again. He is not thinking, he is decidedly not thinking that he has utterly failed another lost and broken protégé to that ever hungry Charybdis of a monster.


  * The FBI lists Clarice as a missing person; there is not enough evidence to imply a connection between her absence and that of Dr. Lecter. Some do not need evidence to know what happened to her. Perhaps Will Graham finds it in himself to seek out and rescue Clarice; perhaps not. Who can tell?



**_That is what could have happened._** Now, for the real story.

## VI. trinity

 

First, there was Abigail,

and Margot closely followed.

By the time Hannibal got to Clarice, he had it down to a science.

 

 

  
**_"perhaps she's stronger than we think"_ **

**ABIGAIL HOBBS**

**FEBRUARY 13, 2031** : With her legs crossed together, and her hair a vibrant red, Abigail Hobbs sits in coach with a tourist group headed to America's capital city from Pisa. She busily looks over literature about DC and the surrounding areas and answers questions in broken English. Underneath the act, there is an ache in her belly; a fear, a very real fear that without her, Will and Hannibal will tear each other apart. Or learn to live without her.

*  
Alana Bloom to Jack Crawford: "She has a penchant for manipulation. Withheld information to gain information. She demonstrated only enough emotions – to prove she had them."

"You beginning to appreciate my lack of sympathy?"

*  
In 1894, Abigail thinks, Minnesota burned in the Great Hinckley Fire and nearly a thousand people died in temperatures reaching 2000 °F. The fire started in the woods, and soon was too unmanageable to contain. A failure in civil engineering, the roads were inexplicably made of peat and they burned like a furnace. The roads burned along with everything else, the pine forests and the houses; flesh and bone. Escape was nearly impossible, unless you could get to water or on a train. The firestorm was insatiable and complete.

There have been over a dozen catastrophic fires in Minnesota since; none as deadly.

Abigail thinks of fire when she leaves; of fury and of pain, of the blackened ashes in scorched earth.

*  
"I'm introducing someone new to our family," Hannibal had told her.

*  
Before she leaves for Virginia, Abigail watches as Will reacts to this newest arrival; unexpected and welcome.

It's a rescue. Hannibal had found her, washed her, and taken her to the vet before making the final decision to add the dog to their family.

The dog is smart, recognizes a pack; recognizes the alpha. Recognizes who will scratch her ears and take her on walks and make sure she’s fed and not mind if she sleeps on the bed. Recognizes who will love her and pet her fur and tell her she's a good dog.

Will hasn’t owned one since Dolarhyde, so his reaction is hard to witness. Abigail could look away to save him the embarrassment, but she loves Will like this; so raw and open for her. Kneeling, Will hides the emotions on his scarred face in her fur.

"He needs company while you're gone," Hannibal whispers to her. They haven't told Will yet, and watching him pet and pet and pet the sweet dog, they both hold their tongues a while longer.

*  
Before she leaves for Virginia, she fucks Will in their apartment.

They're alone, and she's merciless. After bringing him to the edge and backing off more than once, he's a mess of a man, and utterly hers with every syllable he speaks.

She's right on the brink herself when she asks: "What would you have done if he killed me?"

Will stutters out his question. "What?"

She rolls her hips against him and sighs all the way from her toes to her lips. "Hannibal could have killed me in that kitchen all those years ago. He definitely considered it." She's so close that she holds her breath and watches how his face changes.

(He remembers the way he felt, staring at all that blood on the floor, and thinking the worst. And thinking the worst for a very, very long time.)

He surges towards her. His lips meet her neck and then slide close to her ear, her left ear, and he sucks on the shell of it and then just beneath. Seeping with venom, his voice is a hiss. "I would have torn him apart, piece by piece. There would have been nothing left of him after I was done."

She shatters, and he whispers her name like a prayer, following, and following.

*  
Before she leaves for Virginia, she corners Hannibal and makes him promise to take care of Will. She doesn't believe his words ("like always, dear"), but she believes the grip on her wrist. He brings it up to his lips and kisses her palm. His teeth graze the skin there and she shivers.

Things she doesn't say: I'm doing this for us.

Things he doesn't say: Come back, please come back.

*  
Bedelia Du Maurier comes home to find a rescue in her living room.

Abigail sits in a chair (his chair) with an absolute poise.

(Bedelia sucks in air. Abigail is not quite the image of the young girl that Bedelia stared at in abject horror during the trial, but this is Hannibal Lecter's daughter without a doubt. That expression is inscrutable, and thoroughly familiar.)

"How can I help you, Miss Hobbs?" Bedelia says, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other.

(Everyone who had been close to Lecter had been through multiple interviews and training for such a situation. Some FBI agent had called her recently for information on his tastes and if she had ever received lavish gifts from him. She had answered: "refined" and "no". Bedelia isn't the only woman to lie, and lie, and lie to the police about Hannibal Lecter).

"I've come to collect a favor."

"How is he?" Bedelia asks. It's an honest question.

(During the trial, they had gone over the timeline with Bedelia, and she had realized that shortly after Abigail Hobbs went missing, presumed dead, Hannibal had fed her veal. She had balled her fists so tight that she left little curved imprints of her fingernails in the palms of her hands.)

"He misses you," Abigail replies. There is a twinge in her lips, as if she could have smiled.

(It takes a very singular woman to know and understand the intricacies of how Hannibal Lecter's mind works. While her peers termed him insane and monster and the Other, Bedelia knew better.)

Bedelia leans in calmly. "Now, about that favor."

Abigail is impressed. For years, Abigail has watched her prey grown uneasy, realize the danger they are in, attempt escape. It's one thing to be fearful; it's another to do something about the fear.

*  
Baltimore is ultimately a pretty small town, and with one phone call from Dr. Du Maurier, Abigail finds herself working hard for the Department of Child Welfare. She is careful, and kind to the children; her paperwork and references are excellent forgeries and she does not make a splash. She makes sure to keep her fingerprints to herself.

In her spare time, she reads more about the Jame Gumb case, and about the resulting descent of FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling's career. She searches for pictures, stares at the mark high on Clarice's cheek. It's the grains of gunpowder, shot from Gumb's revolver in the dark.

Years ago, Hannibal had told a frightened orphan that scars remind us that the past was real. She wonders if that's why Starling keeps it.

She reads about the Evelda Drumgo case; about how Starling shot and killed a meth drug lord in a fish market. A botched raid at best; Starling killed five with her Colt .45. There's a photo of Evelda bent over her baby in the road, her head tilted like that of a Cimabue Madonna with the brains blown out. Tattle-Crime.com calls her DEATH ANGEL and THE FBI'S KILLING MACHINE. This is a promotion, it seems, from their previous epitaph: THE BRIDE OF DRACULA.

Abigail thinks: Hannibal changes us all.

Abigail thinks: Sometimes a woman needs to kill.

*  
In two weeks, when the call from the Verger estate comes, Abigail volunteers to take the children. Her superiors look relieved, happy to send the new girl off.

*  
Mason Verger is a man of specific tastes. Hannibal, with an almost dreamlike look, had told her as much; the looks on the faces of her fellow employees at the department tell her more.

The world is an open door to a Verger; money and confidence can buy pretty much anything.

There's a sharp sourness in Abigail's mouth when she considers her distaste for the monster; many, many, many probably think the same of a murdering cannibal who knows exactly how to break a person apart through quiet manipulation, a flair for degradation, and an uncanny knowledge of push points.

Many probably think the same of a woman who kills, even if she has to.

Garret Jacob Hobbs was a man of specific tastes. When she was seventeen, her father once held her against a table in the cabin, his hands on her shoulders and his face incredibly close. In whispers, he admitted that earlier he had seen a dark haired young woman in the supermarket. "She was your age," he said. He continued on to say that he had wanted to press his hands to her throat and feel the life leaving her body as she thrashed against him. He was very detailed. Abigail had said: " _daddy, stop_." She heard her voice in the cabin and wondered where this child had come from; she was stronger than this. At the sound of her voice, he had realized his hands were around her neck, pressing hard. "I don't know if I can," he said, honest and true.

Abigail does not think much of conventional morality; she made a choice once that burned it out of her. But if there is a line in the sand, Mason has drawn it for her. Her father had drawn it for her.

While she's here to protect her family first and foremost, she will not have any regrets doing so.

*  
A Dr. Cordell lets her into the palatial house, and hands the child in her arms a lollipop with a smile. If her grip on the boy tightens, no one notices.

She is all bored, welfare nurse, city worker smiles. The guards smile back at her (she is a pretty woman after all). Margot, the sister, is noticeably missing; Hannibal gave her specific notes on what to look for, and what to say. But there's not even a shadow of the damaged woman who followed Abigail's footsteps to Hannibal's office all those years ago.

She eyes her exits, and takes the child to Mason's playroom.

*  
Learning pharmaceuticals was key to her education abroad, and casually reading about the Medici increased her knowledge. The child in her arms is deeply asleep, and will wake up in twelve hours. Dr. Cordell is sitting in a painful stupor that will end in sleep. Mason is now a vegetable who will never wake up.

She is intentionally careless with what she grasps, leaving perfect imprints of her fingers against glass and dusty tables and carved wood. Some will survive the flames, and she wants to say hello to her old friends.

Her work done, she considers Mason's still form (the machines whirring to keep the body pumped with oxygen). There is a part of her, deeply rooted and coming from a place that she thinks is her own, that yearns to carve initials on Mason's chest.

The moment passes and she lights fire to the bed. (Other futures were dire; but there is a dignity to burning to death. A dignity he perhaps never deserved.)

Abigail Hobbs is a woman of specific tastes. She wishes she could watch Mason turn into ash, the waxy blackened body crumbling into dust. She enjoys watching a man die.

Instead: she slips out, ensures the child is safe from the fire, and is in the wind.

*  
On a whim, she drops by a duplex in a working class neighborhood in Arlington, Virginia. There's a 5.0 liter Mustang outside; it needs a wash.

At the door, she speaks with the resident FBI agent inside. Ardelia is pleasant (why wouldn't she be? Abigail's an old old school friend of Clarice's, of course) but firm. Clarice is missing. She flew to Europe and hasn't checked in. I'm so sorry you came all this way.

Abigail smiles wide and her West Virginian accent is thick as she thanks Ardelia kindly and leaves an old number for an old house in Minnesota.

*  
When the evidence is pieced together including the littlest Shrike visiting Clarice's house, Dr. Alana Bloom is the seventh person called. There's a scream perched under her chin. And when she lets it out, it takes her a while to get quiet.

 

 

 

  
**_"barney wondered which dr. lecter had found more interesting in therapy, mason verger, or his sister"_ **

**MARGOT VERGER**

**FEBRUARY 13, 2031** : Margot Verger sits in first class in a flight out of Baltimore. She tries to dull her anger by drinking champagne and holding onto Judy's hand and counting back from 100 in two languages. Before she turns off her cell phone, she sees a text from her brother and she can't stop herself from checking it. "Miss you already," the text says. Margot presses her face into Judy's neck and breathes in deeply.

*  
Paul Krendler about Margot:

He was used to cursing in front of her now, and rather enjoyed it. He bet Margot wished she had a dick. He felt like saying dick in front of Margot, and thought of a way. "It's how Clarice's got the fields set up, and paired Lecter's preferences. She could probably tell you which way he carries his dick."

"On that note," Mason said. "Margot?"

*  
The world is an open door to a Verger; money and confidence can buy pretty much anything.

Margot arrives in Florence with Judy on her arm. ("It's gotta look like a holiday," she told Mason. "I'm not sure Italy is that okay with queers, but fine," he threw back at her.) It's not her favorite city; the language barrier and the smells and the crowds and the endless walking always sour her mood.

("If I do this," she had said, "If I find Lecter, you'll give me what I want." Mason had waved his hands. "I promise, yes, yes.")

The Verger fortune goes to the Verger heir. In the absence of a blood descendent, the money goes to the Southern Baptist Convention. Steroid abuse has ruined Margot's chances at conceiving; and Mason's sperm, once easy to get (liberally painted across the faces and chests of the unwilling), is harder to collect now that he is paralyzed from the neck down thanks to the good doctor.

But Mason has promised her. Help him catch Lecter, and he'd help her and Judy to a Verger heir; artificial insemination, of course. (He's made her many promises over the years. He promised to stop once, and he didn't. Margot has hours of therapy logged with a cannibal as a result.)

So: Margot and Judy hit the town and high society and every fine shop recommended by their concierge.

They giggle at the angel of sodomy at the doorway of the Duomo's façade before climbing all the way to the top for the breathtaking view. They visit Uffizi to admire the David and teasingly pose next to The _Birth of Venus_. They buy up half the shop at the Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella. They eat burrata with olive oil and sea salt and make love in their hotel. They visit with the high born, high rising, society elites with the voices and airs of women born into money.

(The Florentine Patrician, Niccolò Capponi, is still in Prague, and the Capponi Library is not on the regularly traveled path for tourists. Margot cares little for reading Dante's correspondence.)

There is no hint of a man with stunning appetites, stunning parties, stunning conversation; new to the scene or old. It's very much apparent that Hannibal Lecter is not here nor has he been since the days before his incarceration. But of course, why would he be here? Margot remembers Hannibal well, and she's read his file. He would never live in a place where he could be so easily spotted, a place it is documented that he fancies. It is much more likely to have found him in Lithuania or outside of Copenhagen, probably South America.

But Mason wanted Florence checked, its high society monitored and a cursory review of any mysterious deaths.

Florence is a dead end, Margot thinks. Its high society is more interested in fashion and art and tracing their lines back to medieval times. The only mysterious deaths being Il Mostro's victims, and surely the Florentine serial killer was attacking while Hannibal Lecter languished in lockdown.

A waste of time, a waste of a promise, Margot thinks, until Judy pulls her into her lap and her kisses taste like chianti.

*  
Her nose pressed deep into the glass, Margot breathes in the 2014 Brunello and savors the dark aroma of black cherry and earth. Thanks to global warming, 2014 was a _very_ good year. Montalcino is over an hour away from Florence and tasting the finest aged Sangiovese is not looking for Hannibal Lecter. She smiles with closed eyes and drinks the wine, her lips already stained red.

She is supposed to update Mason in an hour. She is thinking of blowing him off.

(Mason should never have let her out of his sight; his grip is slipping.)

A few tables away from them, two men are enjoying a bottle and a heated debate. A handsome couple; she's unsure if they are brothers, lovers, or friends. On occasion, the younger one's face lights up with a smile as bright as the sun. Lovers, she decides.

(Hannibal Lecter sees her across the terrace and recognizes her. He considers his options and whispers into Will's ear. A dark look greets him, for Will knows Margot of old.)

The wine is warm in her mouth and she admires the full profile of flavor, admires the way the wine leaves such perfect legs along the inside of the glass. Italy is delicious in so many ways.

Judy interrupts: "What if we didn't go back?" Judy thinks: What if I didn't have to have his child.

Margot thinks of the money, of her brother, and the ache so tightly wound up in her belly that she can't quite react. Margot thinks of everything she would be giving up. It's absurd.

"You were sent this," their waiter interrupts, with a sublime vintage of the estate's wine in his hands. "Our compliments, Ms. Verger."

In her panic, she forgot that they hadn't told anyone her name.

*  
Stumbling drunk to the car, Margot pulls Judy close and her kiss is without gentleness. It startles them both. (She's checked her phone, and there are five calls from Mason, and two from her lawyer. She should have checked in, she should have checked in.) Judy meets her intensity, and pushes Margot's hand up her leg. "Come on," she urges.

Fumbling in the backseat of the car, Margot's fingers finally make purchase, and thrust in and up, rubbing in all the right places at a rhythm that makes Judy sigh in all the right ways. Fingers scissoring in and out, her arm taunt and firmly in place; and Judy's gasps are somehow darker than usual, like she is dying in her arms.

Margot thinks of Mason spoiling her, whispering things in Judy's ear, his words boiling at her skin and ruining her face. "God, no," she whispers into Judy's neck and feels Judy's sweat against her cheek.

Judy gasps all at once, moaning loud enough to make their driver's cheeks turn red.

Through the shudders and aftermath, Margot holds her close. "What do you want, Judy. Just say it."

Judy leans in, her mouth in her ear and she says, so softly, like it's a secret. "I don't want to have his child."

It's like cold water down her spine.

"Forget it all and marry me, marry _me_."

Margot stares at her, this woman in her arms, still aching from an orgasm with a belly full of wine. It's absurd. They're stupid, they'd be stupid, they can't do this.

"You're mine, not his," Judy says, the palm of her hand sliding across Margot's arm, still flexed.

("You'll always be mine," Mason echoes in her ears, something he said when she was thirteen, and every year after that.)

The world is an open door to a Verger; that is if she is what daddy wanted her to be, is what Mason wants her to be, is what the world wants and expects her to be. Margot has never been the perfect princess with bows in her hair and Louboutins on her feet. She has always been something else.

Years and years ago: standing behind his desk, wearing a perfect three piece suit (cerulean blue), Hannibal Lecter had said: "It's all right to be weird, Margot." His eyes were kind. "I am much weirder than you will ever be."

It's one thing for a therapist to tell you that; it's another for a cannibal serial killer to tell you that. It gives her a sense of clarity whenever she feels the earth twist beneath her.

Here and now, so completely far away from anyone sharing her blood, something deeply rooted in Margot's heart shifts.

 

 

  
**_"did you ever think why the philistines don't understand you? It's because you're the answer to samson's riddle: you are the honey in the lion"_ **

**CLARICE STARLING**

**FEBRUARY 13, 2031** : In coach, flying out of Dulles, Clarice Starling stares up at the ceiling and tries hard not to cry. There is a lot she is leaving behind, and she feels naked without her Colt .45. She's leaving the country on personal business, not the FBI's, so the guns are still at home. She's a fool, she's a fool, she's a fool, and Florence is thousands of miles from Paul Krendler.

*  
Mason Verger to Paul Krendler: "Distress her, hell, you can break her in two. Save the half with the pussy, is my advice. The other end is too goddamned earnest."

*  
Acute panic in the pit of her belly is something Clarice Starling is used to; she's dealt with it all her life.

She felt it when she escaped with Hannah, the old slaughter horse destined to be cut in parts. She felt it when she gave up the full story, her heart in her mouth, to a serial killer who lured it out of her like a fisherman. She felt it when she read Dr. Lecter's first letter to her, asking her to write him as Hannah, and tell him if she still woke up hearing the screaming of the lambs.

She felt it three days ago when she bought a one way ticket to Pisa based on a hypothesis, not any real leads. She feels it right now having found the man she's searched for and no one knows she's here.

He sees her and stays incredibly, supernaturally still. Will Graham in the flesh, in a dog park just outside of old Florence.

She walks towards him, with purpose and wills her panic to quiet in her heart. "Are you here to save me, Special Agent Clarice Starling?" Will says. A greeting of sorts.

"You'd do the same for me," she replies.

They stand in silence, gauging each other.

"They told me you were a Picasso," Clarice says, not following a foolish urge to run her fingers along the new and old skin of his face. "He asked me about you once. He asked me what you looked like," she says.

Will favors her with a direct gaze, one broken FBI agent to another.

"What do I look like?" he says at last. She laughs. Clarice had been told he was hard to look at, which, now she counts as one of the countless lies pressed into her by the masters she cast off.

"His," she replies simply.

Stammets and Dolarhyde aren't the only ones who, reading an article Freddie Lounds wrote, made a singular opinion about Will Graham.

"How did you find us?" Will asks.

"He leaves a trail, if you know what to look for. I know what he likes." There's a supercharged Jaguar XJ outside the Palazzo Capponi. If she wasn't disgraced, if she had FBI resources and therefore connections to Interpol, she could also identify anyone making major purchases of Bâtard-Montrachet or Château Pétrus.

"But I wasn’t looking for him," she says. "I was looking for you."

Will laughs at this, really truly laughs, and there's a strange bitterness to it, like he's been holding it back for decades. Tears in his eyes, he smiles at her and it's a radiant look. "You really came here to save me," he says, stunned.

(He thinks: where were you seventeen years ago when I needed a knight in shining armor. Where were you before I was too broken to function like the rank and file. Where were you, he thinks.)

"Why, Clarice?” he asks.

"I wanted to know if he kept you alive."

He tenses sharply, and she knows immediately where his fealty lies. She gauges his stance; there could be any manner of weapon underneath his jacket. She could be dead in seconds. She’s read his file, and she’s talked to Dr. Bloom at length about him.

"Is Miriam Lass alive?"

Will’s mouth raises, not quite a smile. "She was, for a time."

Clarice considers this. "Is Abigail Hobbs alive?"

The charge she feels is electric, and she has to keep herself from flinching. No, this, this is where his fealty lies. From the look in his eyes, Clarice steadies herself. He may be dangerous, but so is she.

The dog interrupts, shuffling at Will's fists before turning to greet her, smelling her good almond soap and cheerful to meet new friends.

Will does not move, but looks less like he's going to murder her in public.

"What's her name?" Clarice asks, her hands petting the beautiful fur.

"He named her Hannah."

Some part of her, the vulnerable part of her that Hannibal relentlessly pulled out of her in Memphis, rises up and threatens to spill out of her mouth. Holding it back, a sick guttural sound comes out of her throat and her face changes. Will watches her reaction with some clinical confusion before recoiling.

"Oh," he says, and he's seeing it. She's heard much of how he could empathize with the worst of men; something of a horror freak show, a circus act. It's terrifying to witness.

His face changes, and his lips curl into a smile. She can see Hannibal in it, the shape of his face and the pride in his eyes. He's pleased and assured that the lioness has found him.

Will reaches up to fiddle with glasses that he no longer wears, and hasn't worn in years. His eyes do not meet hers as he quietly says, "He likes you," before kneeling down to pet the dog and center himself.

Shaken, Clarice draws a long steadying breath. There is a choice here to make. (The choice was made in 2024 when she agreed to climb down into the dark labyrinth and speak words with the minotaur.)

She has been often called incorruptible. She has also been called a host of other names.

In some myths, Persephone leaps down a chasm to find Hades in his throne room and demand the seeds of a pomegranate. Sometimes you cast off your father and your role as a lesser deity to take on the mantle of a queen.

"Take me," she starts. Stops. Balls up her fists and leans into the madness. "Take me to see him."

Will looks up at her and he is like a mirror broken, carefully pieced back together into art. "Promise me you won't kill him."

She thinks: Where is the man who threatened such a reckoning?

"I can't make that promise," she says.

He looks her direct in the face for a long time before standing, and gesturing for her to follow.

*  
A visit to Florence is not complete without a meal at Cibrèo Ristorante. There's no printed menu; the items change daily. The chef delights in antique Tuscan recipes with fresh ingredients, and every course dazzles. A culinary treasure just east of the heart of the city; white table cloths, candles, bottles of chianti, and immaculate service. (The evening ends with a hefty bill; but a bon vivant willingly pays the piper for such a tune.)

At the door, Will smiles generously to the hostess, who recognizes him at once. "Signore," she breathes, and kisses his cheek. She eyes Clarice carefully and likes what she sees. Clarice looks stunning in another woman's dress. She didn't pack any finery but Abigail's closet is bursting with silks.

"Dr. Fell is already seated at your usual table," and the hostess gestures towards the kitchen.

Across a crowded room, Clarice can see a pair of maroon eyes staring at her. There is only a roar in her ears now, white static as she can feel ever nerve ending in her body.

She misses her .45; there's nothing pressed against her side but her hand, clutching at her skin. This is worse than the dungeon.

Will puts his hand on her back, and she looks back to him, feeling her terror in her bones. He raises his mouth like the start of a smile and says, "I know how you feel."

Somehow she makes it, and there is no glass, no cage between them now. Hannibal is standing to face her, pulling a chair out for her, all courtesy. Staring at that infamous mouth, she realizes they are at last breathing the same air together.

He parts his lips to say something, thinks the better of it, and finally: "You're quite beautiful."

She has been dreading her name on his tongue so much that it makes her laugh not to hear it. Laughter erupts out of her like champagne from a bottle, and she sits, puts her hand over her mouth, and shudders through emotion after emotion. "Looks are an accident, Dr. Lecter," she finally says, raising her chin and feeling a confidence and heat surge back into her blood.

And so, it begins.

*  
The reeducation of Clarice Starling is a strange and beautiful thing. The Lady Murasaki taught Abigail out of need, out of the girl's desperation for survival. Will's mind broke, and broke, and broke again to the point that the shattered pieces could only be adhered by Abigail's presence.

Clarice is different. Her reeducation, her descent into madness, it is all her choice.

*  
"Do you eat people, Will?"

Clarice feels the urge to smile as Will tenses at the question. They're in the apartment together, unloading a bag of shopping.

She continues: "Is that part of this whole escapade?"

He leans against the counter slowly. "Cannibalism? That's the line you draw?"

She smiles at him, and it's a fond smile. She's thinking of how much better everything would have been if they could have been allies at the bureau.

He ducks his head to avoid mirroring her smile. "A long time ago, I realized that every meal he fed me had some bit of some person he had killed." Something shifts in his tone and she wonders how these two men can bear each other's company after their history. (She has not yet met Abigail.) "I will never forget that feeling, ever."

She gives him a moment. So far all she's eaten in Florence is at restaurants or prepared by herself or Will. She has yet to see the famous chef of Chesapeake cook a meal.

"To answer your question - Hannibal has _other_ pursuits here in Florence."

What he does not say is that Abigail occasionally will take a trophy, and she and Hannibal will busy themselves in the grand Capponi kitchen together to make some savory masterpiece. Sometimes Abigail has to honor every part of her victim; sometimes Hannibal needs to remember what fueled him years ago.

"Is that a no?" Clarice asks.

He counters with: "We do murder people sometimes."

Clarice flinches but keeps steady.

"If only Jack could see us now."

A sadness darkens his face, just slightly. "I wish I had known you before."

Clarice smiles, flattered. "I wish I had reached out to you when it was my turn at the wheel."

Something about being together heals ancient wounds; makes them feel whole.

*  
"Tell me, Clarice, would you ever say to me: Stop. If you loved me, you'd stop?"

Hannibal is standing across the kitchen from her (he keeps his distance; he admires her too much to presume himself welcome, yet.) She's busy chopping fennel up for a gratin, and the knife is tightly gripped in her hand.

When she looks at him, incredulous and amused, he closes his mouth.

Not letting go of the knife, she walks towards him, her shapely feet cushioned in beautiful leather shoes. She leaves the knife at her side as she leans into him, just enough to make her point. "Not in a thousand years." She's close enough to kiss.

He breathes in; raw ambergris base, Tennessee lavender, fleece. His smile reaches up to his eyes.

*  
Clarice never once pictured herself changing the way things are, changing the way things work. She only ever wanted to be the best at her job (and she was) and be respected for (and she never would be). She hoped for balance. Now, she could transform, where the rules did not fully apply to her anymore. Where monsters could live, and live well.

She thought back to her own training, the men who had lectured her - seeing her as something else and not as equal. To master a monster, they said, you must crawl into their skin and then as soon as you have them, crawl back out.

She knew that once you have a taste for consuming the darkness, it winds up consuming you.

Before: she was a woman starved.

Now: she is ripping the scales off her hide with a jagged claw and becoming something entirely new.

*  
Although he would never know, Jack Crawford finally found a protégé who could best Hannibal Lecter, just not in the way he hoped.

## VII. fragment

  * When you're out on the street, you know you might take a bullet in the line of duty. You accept it, or you get out. You live with it. What you don't expect or accept is taking one in the back in your boss' office for doing your job exactly as they've taught you. That makes you unhappy.
  * Of course, you're right, Starling. But it doesn't really change anything.
  * It changes everything. It changes me.



## VIII. the burning heart

All of eleven years old, Hannibal thought: when Mischa is old enough to wonder, I will show her things. I want nothing but to share in her feeling of discovery.

*  
"What is your worst memory of childhood?"

He looks up to see Clarice leaning against the doorway. She raises an eyebrow at him, all confidence.

"Whimsical question, Clarice."

She smiles, unmoved.

At last: "The death of my sister."

*  
Will is surprised to find Hannibal in the apartment, staring out the window, holding a coat of Abigail's in his arms.

"I miss her too," Will says.

Hannibal doesn't move from the spot.

Will is long a student of Dr. Lecter; there is little he doesn't understand about the twists and turns of the man's mind. "She's coming back. She'll forgive you."

Years ago, Hannibal had comforted him about Abigail with a hand warm on his shoulder. Will mirrors it now, hoping for the best.

Hannibal turns, an empty expression on his face. He cups Will's scarred face and kisses him, deeply as if they are the only two in this strange, complex relationship. It shocks Will; this is not what they do in the dark alone, not without Abigail with them. He opens his mouth to ask, but Hannibal kisses the words away, swallows them up.

Hannibal Lecter is a man of specific tastes; and Will has always been on the short list.

Later, tangled together in sheets, Will is surprised how Hannibal doesn't get up, but lies in the dirty intimacy of Will and Abigail's sheets, breathing deeply, rooting himself in the present.

*  
Hannibal watches as Abigail steps off the bus from Pisa, and breathes in the Tuscan air. The sun glints off of her short red curls, and her face shines with pleasure as she sees him.

"Daddy," she says, approaching him.

His arms pull her close, and with his nose at her temple, he breathes in deeply. He is delighted at her fealty, and at the faint smell of burnt flesh and smoke in her hair, still not washed out enough. Her serenity infects him, and he feels whole once more.

The words slide carefully out of his mouth: "I have a surprise for you at home."

(It's no surprise. Abigail has never had Hannibal’s nose, but she can smell good almond soap.)

*  
Since his youth, Hannibal has sent murderers to the doorsteps of his loved ones. Murasaki. Will. Abigail. Clarice.

They always survive; so he has no regrets.

*  
Cold greetings become quiet interrogations become intense conversations become whispers in the night. The two predators that once circled each other in an apartment in Florence are now two women in parallel. Both have blood on their hands, both are rooted deeply to the sins of their fathers; both followed a murderer to freedom.

Eventually a bottle of wine is opened, and then another. "Tell me about your mother," Clarice asks, and Abigail laughs, and tells a happy memory. And then, and then she says: "I owe a lot to Lady Murasaki. It is too late to thank her; in this moment, I just wish to say her name."

Clarice smiles, drinks quietly from her glass and aches just a little that she will never meet this important woman ghosting over their lives.

Finally, Clarice admits, "I would have turned him in. And they would have hated me for it. They would have hated me more than ever."

"What is it like to be free of the cage?"

"Is this, is this just another cage?"

Abigail wonders at the question, and shakes her head. "No, this is family."

"You're very much like him," Clarice says. "And Will is too, in other ways."

"And you're not like us at all." Abigail's heart opens just a little wider.

Clarice pushes in, kisses her mouth, and it's a surprise; a sweet simple kiss with the promise of a happy ending, of the sister she's needed all this time.

*  
They attend the opera, a new one, _La Vita Nova_.

Clarice is quiet, quieter than Will. She also has no context for behaving like the upper crust. Unlike Will, however, she has a little taste. Abigail stands up with her during the intermission, and they whisper together with bright eyes and open hearts.

But there's more than one new beauty among the crowd. With the sweet breeze of Fleur du Ciel wafting from her neck, Allegra Laura Pazzi stands alone and lovely in bright silks. (She feeds off the favor, revels in it. This is her domain now.) She spies Will (wealthy looking, standing alone) and pursues with gusto. (She could eat him up, such a fragile looking thing!).

Hannibal approaches her, lifts her hand to his mouth and says, "the Widow Pazzi, I have heard tales of your beauty. But in the flesh, a pleasure." (She, the widow in bright clothing, squirms at being called out. There is sweet anonymity in being here with the cultured elite. As if any of these fine folk knew her husband never mind that he is dead. Plus, Rinaldo spent a fortune on these opera tickets for her, as if she would part with them.)

"Signore," Allegra replies as prettily as she can.

"My condolences," he says before whisking Will away for a glass of Riesling.

Abigail watches the scene carefully, considers eating the woman's heart. She had promised a dying man, after all. Clarice's hand takes her arm, and when Abigail looks up, the feeling quietly burns out of her.

*  
It's hunting season and Abigail takes Will with her to the villa. He's a terrible shot, but she is hungrier than ever for his presence.

Hannibal takes Clarice to The Hague.

A poor girl turned FBI agent never would have thought she'd visit the Netherlands, never mind look at Vermeer's _The Girl with a Pearl Earring_ next to a monster.

"I spent some time at the National Gallery," she admits. "I always thought Vermeer's voyeurism was unsettling. I like this because she's looking at him. A challenge."

(Hannibal is watching her more than Vermeer's masterpiece. He remembers Chilton's spiteful description of the young wayward FBI trainee to be quite beautiful, quite accurate. "Remote and glorious. A winter sunset of a girl, that's what I like to think of her," the man had said. Chilton always had a feisty tongue.)

At _Diana and Her Companions_ , she murmurs in his ear. "We are Acteon in this moment. When she sees us, we will be turned into stags."

"Abigail will shoot us," Hannibal says, and she laughs.

In the grand rooms, she watches how he breathes in deeply and something in his hand shakes. She remembers him caged; something with an enormous wingspan forced to keep his great feathers close to himself. Now in these wide open spaces, she admires how he's taken to freedom.

She feels free herself.

That night, she orders a pot of chamomile and takes it to his room. They talk into the early morning and she falls asleep in the chair. Her dreams are peaceful, and the tightly wound ache she's felt all her life is slowly seeping out of her skin.

A hand in her hair wakes her, and she looks up to see him standing over her. There is no guard to protect her, no .45 strapped to her leg. She's alone with a nightmare.

She thinks: **_Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head._**

She thinks: **_The world is more interesting with you in it._**

There's not an inch of her that is afraid of him anymore.

"Our stars are the same now," she says.

After, they rarely sleep in separate rooms again.

*  
Abigail is half asleep, watching the fire, as Clarice and Hannibal talk late into the night. Will's dead to the world, dreaming peacefully next to her, and the dog is snuffling quietly at his feet.

Clarice cradles a cup of tea (black tea from Shizuoka; undoctored). "Tell me,” she says directly. “Tell me about Mischa.”

A horror washes over Abigail, and her heart races. There are things they do not speak of. Mischa is the top of the list.

Hannibal smiles, takes the cup away and replaces it with his warm hand, and opens his mouth.

"She had deep blue eyes, and when she stared at something she loved, her eyes would draw color from it, darken with it. I loved her, I loved her in a way I could not help."

As she listens, Abigail realizes how much he is describing her, not the dead child whose bones rot in a copper bathtub far north of them. It's as if the other never lived, or as if she lived now within Abigail's bones.

A place had been made for Mischa in the world; and it was the most worthiest place that Hannibal knew.

Hannibal catches her eye, and nods. Her heart is so full it could burst.

## IX. finale

 **It's 2031, Cinque Terre, Italy** , and it's taken the lawyers a better part of three months to trace Margot Verger to a small house.

She had spent a pretty penny to hide just enough for it to be difficult, not impossible, to be found.

Margot has her mouth between Judy's legs when they knock on the door; that sort of irritating American knock of lazy overconfidence. She almost doesn't answer it, but Judy lifts her head up and shoos her away.

At the door, she greets them with the cold imperiousness of a Verger as they tell her that her name no longer matters. Mason is dead, he was killed by someone connected to Hannibal Lecter. The money and the estate goes to Texas and the Southern Baptists. Would she like her personal effects shipped to Italy at her cost?

It takes her a moment to collect herself into making a proper response. She offers them a glass of chianti, which they decline. The glass shakes in her hand as she swiftly downs it and calls for Judy. The wall is not enough for her lean on, she needs something made of stronger stuff.

Hannibal Lecter once told her in therapy that she should murder Mason, when she was older and could get away with it. "It's the sort of catharsis I have to recommend, professionally," he had said with dark eyes and a kind smile.

The tears in her eyes are a mix; crocodile, bitter, and real.

There's a letter that arrives soon after the lawyers. The copperplate script is impeccable, familiar.

> _Dear Margot,_
> 
> _My condolences to you regarding the death of your beloved brother. I hope you are doing well in his absence, though I've read about the money passing along to the Christians. Pity. Still, I wonder now if you will enjoy your freedom as much as I have enjoyed mine._
> 
> _It was delightful to witness you looking for me, Margot, you naughty girl. I hope you and your young miss enjoyed the wine. Fuligni is a delight. Once we shared a glass of the 2007, do you remember?_
> 
> _I always liked you. You were always more capable than your brother._
> 
> _Regards,_  
>  _Hannibal Lecter, MD_

The sunlight is warm on her face as she reads and remembers. Some catharses takes time.

-  
**It’s 2033, Quantico, Virginia** , and Jack Crawford died at Jefferson Memorial two years ago.

Paul Krendler watches his political career dissipate without Verger’s finances and connections backing him. There’s only so much a cruel man without intelligence, and so many burned bridges, can accomplish. Better the humiliation of obscurity than Hannibal's knife, but how would he know any better?

Will Graham is missing; Clarice Starling is missing. Neither case is carried as a kidnapping as no living person saw either of them abducted. What investigator could make an intuitive leap, and track them down? Beverly has a few ideas, and Ardelia has a few leads; but the FBI is never fond of a woman asking too many questions, demanding to be heard.

Alana Bloom screws up her courage and writes an article about Will Graham for an international journal of psychiatry. She delves deep, and is very explicit about the details. When she finishes the first draft, she dry heaves into her toilet until she can't anymore. After, she shivers under as many blankets she can pull over herself and thinks: if only Freddie Lounds could read this.

She is hoping the article will spur him to do something, show himself. Prove that he's not dead in the ocean somewhere. Prove he's not dead under someone's knife.

It makes a splash in circles far and wide. For years, she gets emails and letters about it, book offers, lecture requests. They give her a promotion over it.

Molly Foster calls her after the esteemed Dr. Bloom has an interview about it in the New York Times. "You goddamn bitch," she says. Alana makes a noise that's somewhere between a sob and a laugh. She remembers meeting Molly at a party decades back. Smart girl; the alpha Will needed. Uncomplicated and stable.

"I know," Alana replies. "I know."

It doesn't work; Will holds his tongue, keeps his peace. (Hannibal reads the article over and over and over, and makes many notes in the margins, and makes a very disapproving face when he discovers Abigail has burned his copy.)

-  
**It’s 2036, Florence** , and Barney and his girlfriend are perusing the markets, haggling badly in Italian.

He's keeping an eye on the time – they have tickets to see some traveling Vermeers at the Uffizi.

He sees two sisters, arm in arm, enjoying the beautiful day and sunshine. One of the women bears a French beauty spot, high on the cheek. The French call it "courage." It's the grains of gunpowder from the revolver of the late Jame Gumb. The other woman has a thin white line along her neck. She was once attacked by her father with a butcher knife in a Minnesotan kitchen.

They are both survivors; they are L'Angelo della Morte and Il Mostro.

Clarice catches his eye and there is something like a smile in the twinge of her lip.

Apologies rich in his mouth, he turns to his girlfriend and they are on the next bus out of Florence within the hour.

-  
**It's 2050, Copenhagen** , and we are following a family home.

An odd, but sweet family lives in a large apartment downtown. A woman and her older lover, both with strange scars; a senile old man; and the woman's sister. They all wear matching rings. No children, but they own a couple dogs and you can always see the couple walking them together in the mornings, bright sunny faces. On occasion, they roll out the old man in a wheelchair and walk him down the old narrow streets. He's very gentle and calls them all the wrong names and only speaks in Danish or French. The woman's sister spends a lot of time with him, talking with him outside and making sure he's comfortable. It's unclear if he's a relation or a friend; but it's obvious that they all care for him. The couple fishes together, and occasionally she hunts. Many know her to be a crack shot. They each look, and act, happy.

The community thinks of them fondly.

-  
**The year and place is irrelevant** , and Hannibal Lecter is staring at his masterpiece in wonder.

Abigail Hobbs is alive, blood pumping in her heart and air entering and leaving her lungs. Her hair is brown, is red, is platinum, is long or short. Her face has features similar and dissimilar to the face he remembers in Minnesota. She has shapely calves, and her arms are muscular.

Such rude materials made up into a creature of such magnificence. Abigail is the Minotaur, the Medusa, the Diana who turned Actaeon into a stag. She's perfect. His investment is well worth it.

Hannibal considers for the faintest moment snuffing out the light shining bright before him, and decides against it.

Some master works live on, always more stunning and delightful and terrifying than the artist himself.

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> I am deeply indebted to Th_esaurus for her incredible support throughout this whole process. She is a gem, a treasure, a bright light in my life, and I am so grateful to her! 
> 
> Thanks to sweet Siterlas, you're a dear deer friend who I adore forever. Thanks to the incomparable Imry and Fahye, and the kind words and beta from Slipshod. Additional thanks to Takeliberties for my multiple interrogations on life in Firenze; to K&C&G for the most excellent lesson in Vermeer; thanks to Ina Garten for Cibero; thanks to La Rêve; thanks to Mediaville for inspiring my new obsession with Brunellos; and thanks to the many, many I've spoken with who influenced my feels about Florence, Italian wine, and general sociopathy. This is a labor of love. XOXO.


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